


Singularity

by Havokftw



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Sex, Aliens, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Bad Science, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Fluff, Humor, IN SPACE!, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Romance, Loneliness, M/M, Multiple Realities, Outer Space, Paranoia, Roommates, Spaceships, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-07-14 01:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 58,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16030241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Havokftw/pseuds/Havokftw
Summary: A lot of people would imagine piloting a space station on a reconnaissance mission should feel like freedom, but there's no such thing on a five-square-mile piece of metal, hemmed in on every side by flat, black nothingness.It’s like living on the galactic version of the Mary Celeste.





	1. Event Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist: Just mood music from some of my favourite Sci Fi-films.  
> [Welcome to Lunar Industries-Clint Mansell](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_lAfMT5FIZE)  
> [First Sleep-Cliff Martinez](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGiPlzcNpws)  
> [Journey to The Line-Hans Zimmer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D75UP7APbF4)  
> [No Time for Caution-Hans Zimmer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3zvVGJrTP8)  
> [Don't Blow It-Cliff Martinez](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8_E_y-EUkA)  
> [Life-Harry Gregson Williams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_uPhN9gJ0k)  
> [Sunshine-John Murphy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NQXVzg2PiZw)  
> [Protect Life-The Fifth Element OST](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4T-qmSvs66E)  
> I'll probably add more as I continue.

 

                                                                               

“Wakey—wakey, Seungcheol. Happy Halloween.”

Seungcheol sighs, stumbling out of his bunk. His eyes are still mostly shut, and it takes him a long minute to correctly work the panel on the wall to accept the call.

“Did you wake me up just to piss me off?” he grunts, turning back towards his bunk, flopping, face first, back into the mattress.

All personnel in Central are well aware of just how much he _hates_ these holiday reminders, but Jeonghan in particular likes to rub it in.

Of all the communication’s officers Seungcheol has worked with—and there have been a fair few in his lengthy career—Jeonghan is by far the most annoying. Constantly reminding Seungcheol of what he’s missing out on where he back on Earth.  

Jeonghan’s laugh crackles over the radio. “You should stick to centralised time, so these check ins don’t disrupt your sleep.”

“I’ve never heard of a reconnaissance mission _needing_ so many check-ins.” Seungcheol mumbles into his pillow.

“They don’t. Not usually. It’s just your last report to Central was kind of—” Several deliberate seconds pass before Jeonghan continues with, _“Disconcerting_.”

Seungcheol blinks. Suddenly wide awake.

He keeps his guard up and his tone bland when he answers, “Do you want me to submit a psych-eval?”

“No, no—that’s not necessary.” Jeonghan is quick to reassure. But there is a strained quality to his voice when he continues. “I think the higher-ups just want a little more detail in your reports.”

“ _Detail_. More detail.” Seungcheol repeats. He turns his head away from the wall, gives the black, empty space outside his viewport another cursory glance. “Okay, I can give more detail. Oh, wait—that’s right. THERE’S NOTHING OUT HERE!”

The last word thunders too loud in the quiet room.

Jeonghan’s sigh is a pitying thing. “I know, I know, but that’s why they _get_ concerned. Your reports have been increasingly vague Seungcheol, and that follows a disturbing pattern of failed deep space missions. They’re just worried the tedium is getting to you, and what with the length of your mission you can’t blame them for thinking you might--”

“Jettison myself out of the airlock?” Seungcheol cracks a smile despite himself.

There’s a disappointed tut from Jeonghan. “Please. Don’t even joke about that. It’s more common than you think.”

Seungcheol rubs a hand over his eyes, “Look—I’m feeling fine, Hannie. But, if it makes Central rest easy at night, I’ll start a fire in the mess hall or something. Give them something other than my sanity to fret about.”

There is an audible weariness in Jeonghan's voice when he replies, “As usual Seungcheol, our chats always fill me with confidence. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

The comm cuts out and the silence that descends after is deafening.

Seungcheol lets out his breath, squints against the headache that's building behind his eyes, and slides out from beneath the covers.

He’s up now—might as well make himself useful.

* * *

  **DAY: 738**

The first year was the worst.

It took time to get used to the silence. To stop turning around at every little sound—the hum of the engines, the hiss of a door shutting behind him—and starting to speak to someone who’s not there. To get used to seeing his own face in the mirror every morning, lathered with shaving cream, hungover, whatever—and remember that he was completely alone. 

He was sure he’d throw in the towel and request a transfer after six months in, but his coping mechanisms turn out to be better than he’d thought. 

The bored-looking government psychologist Seungcheol met with a handful of times to prepare for life on-board had recommended sticking to a routine.  _Structure is important to keep you grounded._

Seungcheol has taken that advice; he builds his routines purposefully, the way a man might build a wall of sandbags against rising waters.

Up at seven, shower and shave every other day. Oatmeal for breakfast, and a period of enlightenment over the latest news headlines that get sent to his inbox every morning. Digests about uprisings and revolutions, political alliances, market crashes and the latest Pleasure-Bots flooding the black market. He always feels a little homesick after he finishes, but he can’t bear to cut it out of his routine. It’s important to keep up with current events, after all.

After breakfast he walks a circuit of the station, monitors the coolant levels, inspects the mainframe, noting where sections need to be repaired. Even if the computer doesn’t alert him, there’s always _something_ , enough to get him through to dinner.

Cooking is one of his sole pleasures. Grilled chicken Japchae, pork Bolgogi and recreating his mother's Sundubu-jjigae. When he's feeling particularly _exotic,_ he'll try something Western. Sole with lemon. Chicken with paprika. Rabbit with red wine, mussels with white. It’s pathetic not to have anyone to cook for, but what else is he going to do?

The evening is hardest to fill. Usually he naps, and wakes up to find himself surrounded by nothing but starlight and what feels like an impending madness, adrift in all that emptiness. That’s when he feels most like going straight to the flight deck, overriding the controls and taking the station for a joyride. He forces himself up and does push-ups until it eases off. Sometimes a hundred, sometimes more.

There’s a large greenhouse in the lower deck, brimming with life; all deep greens and abundant fauna, the faint fragrance of surrounding flora hanging heavy and ambrosial in the air. It supplies most of the station’s oxygen and Seungcheol makes a point to visit it often, even if it’s just to sit on a solitary bench and read under it’s only cherry-blossom tree.

Some idiot saw fit to include an entertainment room in the third deck, so Seungcheol can play table tennis, snooker and foosball _all_ by himself if he so desired.

He doesn’t.

The room is sealed now, its windows shuttered and its lights dark.

He spends a few hours at the start and end of each day in the flight deck, performing scheduled scans and adjusting the stations trajectory.

He’s there now, leant back in the pilot’s seat, sipping on the cold remnants of his morning coffee and generally wishing he was anywhere else but here.

A lot of people would imagine piloting a space station on a reconnaissance mission should feel like freedom, but there's no such thing on a five-square-mile piece of metal, hemmed in on every side by flat, black nothingness.

It’s like living on the galactic version of the Mary Celeste.

Central had touted this scrap of space out past Messier 33 as relevant enough to warrant further investigation. But twenty years of surveillance by some of the best space pilots in the fleet later, and still nothing.

For Seungcheol—it’s been 738 days of _nothing_. 

It’d help if the higher-ups would at least give him a task besides the usual ship maintenance and interference scans, but no. All the potential _‘Generic space anomalies’_ and _‘unexpected subspace readings’_ are automatically identified and collated by an on-board computer system, so even if shit _happened_ —Seungcheol’s still going to be left there twiddling his fucking thumbs. 

The whole set up is an insult to his rank, his honour, and worst of all his intelligence.

Just because he's a flight officer and not a scientist doesn't mean he can't appreciate the chance to add something  _tangible_  to the abstract scans and data they're gathering from this corner of space.

He pulls a toothpick out of the breast pocket on his flight-suit and tucks it between his teeth, rolling it with his tongue. Only two more hours staring at the stars, and then he can go back to the inner decks and the far more palatable boredom of his own quarters.

After a while the boring black starts to blur together, and Seungcheol blinks.

When he opens them again there’s a thin sliver of deeper purple striking through the darkness, subtle, but he hasn’t spent hours out here over the last two years to not be sure of what should be here and what shouldn’t.

“Lieutenant Seungcheol to Computer. I’m picking up a visual anomaly up ahead, initiate scan.”

 

> [Scan initiated]  
>  [Scan complete]  
>  [No anomaly detected]

__

Seungcheol frowns, sparing a glance at the data screen before returning his full attention to the less-than-reassuring image through the view port before him. “Uh—Computer. I’m pretty sure there’s something out there, initiate another scan.”

 

> [Scan initiated]  
>  [Scan complete]  
>  [No anomaly detected]

Seungcheol taps a few more buttons on the console and shifts his hands to the steering pad, gunning the west engines to rotate the station 35 degrees to afford a better view.

As he watches the sliver widens into more of a rift, pulsing against the flat blackness of the surrounding space. It can’t be a galaxy or anything else like that; everyone would have seen it before.

“Computer—are you picking up any unusual readings?”

 

> [No relevant readings detected]

Seungcheol bites his tongue and glares straight ahead.

The viewport offers a disconcerting glimpse of space gone wrong. Shimmering, distorting, rolling in on itself like the tide of an ocean, except for a tiny slice of normal starry blackness too far away.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me, computer—how are you not picking this up? There’s an anomaly right in front of my fucking face. It’s growing in size and I’ve never seen anything like it. Run another fucking scan!”

 

> [Scan initiated]  
>  [Scan complete]  
>  [Anom--

__

Whatever the on-board computer was about to say is lost under the sudden screech of the contact alarm sounding in the cockpit.

 

> [Warning: Radiation levels at 45%. Please alter course]

“What?”

Seungcheol’s grip on the steering pad tightens.

It's not that he is hesitating.

He's too experienced an officer to freeze up at the first sign of danger on a looming horizon. But he isn't ready to retreat to safety just yet. He wants a better look—a chance to catch this strange phenomenon for Central’s scientific archives.

He adjusts the settings on the external scanner, enhancing to capture the image at a greater distance.

It still isn't enough.

The rift is too far away. And from a quick glance at the info-deck, it appears to be thrusting the station away, _out_ of it's gravitational field. Like a black hole in _reverse._

Overriding the ship’s defensive protocols, Seungcheol commandeers the controls and propels the station forward, slowly, ignoring the radiation warning alerts it triggers.

It's beautiful even from here. Like some massive meteorological event instead of the artificial space anomaly it is. Even scanning at full strength, Seungcheol sees only a sheening, swooping cloud drifting through a literal hole in space. A gorgeous and mind-distorting swathe of perpetually changing colour, casting an improbable mix of blackness and reflection in the dead space around it.

 

> [Warning: Radiation levels at 65%. Please adjust course]

"Just a little closer," Seungcheol pleads.

He can almost,  _almost_  make out a large shape through the rift, floating amongst the pieces of the oncoming cloud, and he is desperate to see. Not for the science of it—there is nothing his eyes can discern that the scanning equipment can't do better—but because it shouldn't all be about computers and data. 

Then, as he watches, a proximity alarm sounds, jarring and loud.

Seungcheol's neck twinges as he jerks his head in the direction of the blaring equipment, and his eyes widen at what he sees pass across the screen in front of him.

A fast-moving heat signature passing through the rift.   

It's just a sequence of numbers, but Seungcheol’s mind parses them easily, conjuring an image to match. Visualizing the alarming slant of the heat signature’s trajectory.

It’s heading straight for him.

“Fuck!” Seungcheol says, tugging the steering pad backwards hard, pulling the station away from the rift.

Not a second later, the sky lights up as something streaks out of the growing tear, accelerating even further once through.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Seungcheol glares at the console, at the safety alerts pinging as he engages the stations primary defence canon.

It’s easy enough to get the vessel in his crosshairs, but it’s hard to keep it there.

Whatever just slipped out of that rift is small, streamlined and manoeuvring a deep-space station to keep sight of it is next to impossible.

The unidentified vessel dips and rolls out of his crosshairs suddenly, cresting the cockpit far too close for comfort and bearing down on the southern wall, practically behind him. Practically  _on top_  of him.

“Shit—shit. Don’t lose it!”

Seungcheol flips a switch and pulls the steering pad back harder, fast enough to trigger warnings throughout the station.

Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light illuminates the dead space up ahead.

Seungcheol doesn’t even get a chance to swear before his view is swallowed by light, and everything is static and gravity and the sick, inexorable sense of falling.

* * *

It’s cold when Seungcheol groans and eases his eyes open.

He’s lying on his back staring at a pale grey ceiling, and if this is what death is like, he’s going to be really, really pissed off.

Except death sounds really, really loud—and a lot like a system failure alarm.

“Oh— _shit_.” He rolls onto his knees to survey his surroundings, and finds he’s been thrown out of his seat in the earlier chaos. The flight deck appears to be completely intact, but the computerised voice trilling _Warning_ in the background heralds disaster elsewhere.

“Computer, status report.” Seungcheol says, bracing an arm on the empty pilot's seat and levering himself up from the floor. The room spins around him in a way he doesn't approve of at all.

 

> [Depressurisation in eastern wing. Radiation panels dislodged on south side. Coolant leakage in mainframe]

The computer’s calm voice settles the worst of his worries. Seungcheol no longer feels disoriented and confused.

“What needs fixing first and how long have I got?”

 

> [Prioritise hull tear in eastern wing]

“Alright.” Seungcheol sighs, and heads towards the emergency hanger to suit up.

* * *

When Seungcheol returns to the flight deck, he’s spent the better part of seven hours putting out various literal and metaphorical fires. He’s exhausted and smells way more like smoke than he’d like. 

Retaking his position in the pilot’s seat, he’s surprised to find the comm system lit up with a recorded transmission.

His first thought is that Central have hailed him to ask what the fuck he’s doing with their space station, but when he hits play, it soon becomes apparent it’s not.

Instead of a soft beep and the silence of open airwaves, his ear fills with the sharp, unhappy hiss of static. It’s a ragged sound, harsh and patchy, and when Seungcheol tries to adjust the frequency, all he gets is louder static. The volume swells until….

Seungcheol blinks.

There's a voice coming over the comm system; a crackling hiss that flares and pops on every fifth word.

It's not a language he’s ever heard, but the pattern of breaks is familiar in a way that makes him take a breath and lean in just a little closer.

It’s a distress signal.

Something, out there, is rambling off coordinates in a tone that's high and panicked, rough in a way that suggests it's been calling for some time.

He’s almost lost himself listening to that strange flow of foreign words, when a sharp repetitive blaring noise begins to sound in the background. It’s tinny and awful and continues to drown out the voice until the recording cuts.

Try as he might, Seungcheol can’t triangulate the source of the transmission due to some unexplainable interference. But even though the message is in some incomprehensible language, it’s a strong signal.

Whatever’s transmitting it— must be nearby.   

Seungcheol shakes his head, fingers hovering over the buttons, his scowl has turned into a frown.

“Computer—are you picking up any unidentified debris in the vicinity?”

 

> [Negative]

Seungcheol sighs. “If you say so.”

* * *

  **DAY: 739**

“ _Someone_ was having fun yesterday.” Jeonghan’s amused voice bursts across the comm line.

“You got my report?” Seungcheol blurts in a low, clumsy rush.

“Yeah, I did. And I read the computer log too—system failures right left and centre, hull breaches and radiation panel damage. This isn’t want I meant by more detail by the way. I would like to be clear right now, that I _never_ suggested you take the station for a spin and try and give yourself whiplash.”

Jeonghan’s tone is— _impossibly_ —light and unworried. Easy. Exasperated. Like he can't believe Seungcheol is bothering him with insignificant updates.

“Forget that for a second.” Seungcheol huffs, impatient and irritated. “What about the _anomaly_ , the huge ass rift I reported?”

There’s a prolonged silence on the other end of the line, before Jeonghan begins in a tight voice.  

“Lieutenant Choi—”

The use of rank instead of his name makes Seungcheol’s cringe. He knows it’s bad when Jeonghan retreats behind protocol and the chain of command.

“Look—I know what you’re going to say, but I _know_ what I saw. There was a rift, bleeding light and colour, and this slick looking vessel passed through it—I tried to follow its trajectory and then—”

“But there’s no evidence of it Seungcheol.” Jeonghan pipes in, with a solidity that draws Seungcheol up short. “I ran the data you sent in your report, I got some of my best guys to check it out and what you’re describing _doesn’t exist._ Yes, there was a small gamma ray spike that lasted for a few minutes, but gamma ray spikes have been observed before in other galaxies. The closest theory they could come up with is a White Hole, and I don’t even want to get into the improbability of that because White Hole’s are hypothetical at best.”

It's with difficulty Seungcheol keeps his voice mild. “I got the computer to run three scans when I saw the rift. The first two scans came up with nothing, but the third scan would have picked _something_ up had the contact alarm not been triggered.”

There’s another pause, longer this time.

And then Jeonghan sighs and says, “That’s the thing. We don’t even have a record of the contact alarm _being_ triggered. The computer log is empty except for two clear scans and a fuck load of system failure warnings.”

The mild tone strains. “Fine,” Seungcheol bites out. “But what about the distress signal I recorded? Has anyone been able to translate _that_ at least?”

“Hmm. About that Seungcheol—what makes you so sure it _was_ a distress signal? It just sounds like static to us. There aren’t any discernible words.”

Seungcheol runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “ _Hannie_ , I did not just fly a space station at inadvisable speeds over _nothing_.”

A slow breath, a measurable hesitation, and Jeonghan says, “How’s your sleep at the moment?”

“Good. Great. I sleep well.” Seungcheol keeps his tone as calm as he can manage despite the obvious deflection.

Jeonghan’s answering hum sounds dubious. “Getting a full eight hours? Uninterrupted? Are you taking anything to help you _get_ to sleep?”

Seungcheol scoffs, “Don’t worry, I’m not self-medicating.”

“Maybe you _should_.” Jeonghan offers.

“I—” Seungcheol falters, thrown by the suggestion, then says, “Wait. You’re actually suggesting I dope—”

“The Medical team have recommended it actually.” Jeonghan interrupts breezily. “Nothing long term, obviously. Just a couple of Diazepam at night, something to _ease_ you into sleep—reduce your anxiety.”

 _“I’m not anxious.”_ Seungcheol says through gritted teeth.

“But you _sound_ anxious.” Jeonghan retorts. Which translates quite easily from Hannie-speak into 'completely and totally nuts.'

Seungcheol groans. “This is ridiculous.”

He can feel the futility of his protest, the absolute pointlessness of railing ahead when everyone in Central obviously thinks he’s gone mad with cabin fever.

Resigning himself to being ignored, he allows his posture to ease, his shoulders to slump.

“Yeah, you’re right Hannie. Maybe I’ll take your advice on the medication. See how I feel tomorrow.”

It's a feeble surrender. He feels like a coward, even though he knows persisting will only cause more alarm.

“Great!” Jeonghan sounds instantly relieved. “And then tomorrow, Central have some basic scans they want you to run. I’ll send them through. Nice, easy stuff to take your mind off things.”

The pleasantness Seungcheol forces in answer is wan, but hopefully convincing.

"Yeah. Sure thing."

* * *

  **DAY: 740**

 

> [Warning: Radiation panels dislodged on the south side]

The on-board maintenance system alerts Seungcheol the next morning.

“I already fixed that yesterday.” Seungcheol answers around a yawn. “Calibrate readings.”

 

> [Radiation panel reading re-set]  
>  [Scanning station exterior]  
>  [Warning: Radiation panels dislodged on the south side]

Seungcheol sits up abruptly, fog dissipating in a dizzying rush of adrenaline. He fumbles a hand out of the covers, gropes uselessly at the bedside table with nerveless fingers before finally managing to retrieve his data pad.

According to the ship schematics, there are indeed two radiation panels dislodged from the south side of the station. And even though he’d ventured out there yesterday, repaired everything that had come loose from his inadvisable manoeuvre—he’s going to have to suit up _again_.

Which— _probably_ isn’t the wisest thing to do when you’re mildly sedated with benzodiazepines; because maintaining an orbital space station is like operating heavy machinery, drowsiness is dangerous.

He'll fall asleep in his space suit and float into an asteroid field at this rate, but he can’t delay the repair; everything needs to be ship-shape when he submits the next maintenance log to central.

* * *

Once outside, Seungcheol attaches the safety tether to his space suit and makes for the south side, finds two panels wide open just as seen in the scan.

On closer inspection he finds the panels have not just been _dislodged_ , but damaged too. The inner hydraulics of the locking mechanism are a mess, metal-and-conduit-lined guts jutting out from where a missing fuel cell should lie.

Thank fuck he has spares.

Doubling back to the air lock, he packs up the equipment he needs and sets out again to replace the fuel cell.

Repairing radiation panels is…

Banal, is the word that comes to mind.

Seungcheol manages to keep himself mildly entertained with thoughts of what he’ll do when he gets back to Earth.

He wonders, idly, what the exchange rate is between Korean Won and Australian dollars these days, and whether that little family run Takoyaki restaurant he likes in Osaka is still open. He wonders if Mingyu’s going to be back on shore leave when he’s there—and if he can rope him into re-visting that brothel in Amsterdam they found last time. His mum will be pleased to see him. As always, she’ll convey her affection through food and criticism: he’s got too many tattoos, he’s gained or lost too much weight, and when’s he going to stop wasting his time in his dead end career and settle down in Daegu with a nice girl, _quickly, make a baby before your balls shrivel up._

His mind has wandered again—predictably—too lost in this literal maze of his own ideas and dreams and memories that he doesn't realise the danger until it’s too late.

As he moves onto the second panel, the safety tether that connects his flight suit to the ship’s hull detaches, severed by the first panel shutting on it.

Seungcheol startles at the hiss of the panel re-opening automatically, and carefully dives to avoid it’s swing.

He expects to be tugged back towards the hull a few seconds later, the safety tether doing its job of drawing him in when he strays too far—only he finds himself slowly floating, further and further away instead.

“Oh…shit!” Seungcheol flails his arms out, trying to slow his momentum as he drifts away from the station.

His attempt is useless of course. With nothing to grip and no gravity to weigh him down, he only succeeds in setting himself off in a slow, perpetual spin. Seungcheol taps his comm badge during an awkward scuffling of limbs, but the distinctive chirp goes unanswered. Either he’s too far away for the station’s computer to register it, or _something_ is giving off more than enough interference to jam standard comm signals.

“Fuck. Think—think.” Seungcheol hisses, head spinning as his lungs struggle to remember how to breathe.

He tries to think through the frantic thudding of his own pulse, the view of the station through his helmet shrinking with each full spin.

When, suddenly—there’s a discordant rush of images. Whispering and light and pressure all along his back. Mixed up with the shuddering threat of hysteria and fury, and horrible terror.

He falls motionless.  

Which _shouldn’t_ be possible. It really shouldn’t.

Not out here, where debris can drift for an _eternity_. 

Seungcheol cranes his neck, trying to shift the bulky suit to peer behind him, but there’s an invisible grip around his waist, an odd mockery of an embrace.

In a disorientating flash, he’s spun upright and that’s….

That’s when he sees it.

It?

Him?

Huh?

“Holy shit.” Seungcheol says quietly and he's amazed his voice isn't higher, isn't more hysterical, because he thinks the situation deserves a little hysterical at this point.

There’s a boy floating directly in front of him now, with bright blue eyes and soft wisps of silver hair that float around his head like a halo. He’s lithe and pale and humanoid, but clearly _not_ real at all because he’s floating out here, in _space_ , barefoot and naked except for the thin white straps that criss-cross his body.  

The only reason Seungcheol  _knows_  he's not dreaming is that his heart is thumping so fast he can see his own pulse readings on the Heads-up display and his panicked breaths are fogging up the view through his helmet.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

There’s a soft glow to the boy now, and he’s saying something to Seungcheol in some unintelligible whisper, but the sound is muffled by the rush of blood in Seungcheol’s ears. 

And then, even stranger than everything that's come before, the boy reaches out and  _takes his hand_ —tugs him back towards the frayed edge of the tether floating meters away.

Seungcheol sets aside the weirdness to reach for the tether, reeling himself in till his boots connect with the stations hull.

When he glances behind him—the boy has vanished.

Seungcheol finds himself alone, safety tether reattached and gradually reminds himself to breathe.

* * *

Seungcheol will probably spend the entire rest of his life wondering where he found the brain power to finish his repair job and make it back to the airlock. But somehow, mindless, he finds his feet. Somehow he makes it back inside.

When the airlock re-pressurizes, Seungcheol slumps against the nearest bulkhead and pulls off his helmet. He's out of zero gravity now, in the relative safety of the station, and all around him are the reassuring beeps and hums of station instruments working as intended.

“Computer, status report on panel repair.” He mumbles.

 

> [Scanning station exterior]

The info pad on the wall pulses a steady glow, lights in blue and green signalling the beginning of a routine external scan, assessing his repair job.

 

> [Radiation panel repair complete]

The computer announces a minute later.

Taking a calming breath, Seungcheol shuts his eyes briefly, then opens them.

He’d be relieved it if it weren't for the slight niggling in his belly, the sensation that he's resting on the edge of something terrifying, teetering. Despite the thin layer of sweat he can feel all over his body, the skin on the back of his neck is prickling, the little hairs standing up.

Carefully, he makes his way down the corridor, stripping the rest of his flight suit as he goes.

He has a shit ton of reports to type up, but that can wait till tomorrow.

Tonight, he’ll head to the mess hall and let himself get hammered on a bottle of whiskey.

* * *

**DAY: 741**

The next day, Seungcheol stands in the toilet, red-eyed and hungover, holding the open straight razor against his throat. Staring at himself, eye to eye. Holding a private conversation. A conversation he’s not sure he’s even fully invited to, himself.

_No. You’re not losing it._

_You saw what you saw._

He shaves instead, rinses it all down the sink and then heads to the cock-pit to type up his report.

 _Accidentally detached from safety tether while repairing radiation panels. Rescued by half-naked floating boy.—_ Seungcheol types shakily, while wondering if he actually has lost his fucking mind.

He’s lucky to be alive. He may be trapped on a space station, but it’s a damn site better than floating helplessly through space while his oxygen cylinder ran out. It's a thought that threatens to knock nausea and panic loose in Seungcheol's guts again. A truth he can't think on too closely just yet—even with the danger passed—it still puts him on edge to consider how near he came to a slow, painful death.

When he’s finished, he reads the report of the event back to himself and then promptly deletes the entire thing.

Nobody is going to fucking believe him.

* * *

  **DAY: 745**

Seungcheol's been staring at the ceiling for the last two hours.

The clock reads 3:16am-Centralized time, which is seven minutes later than the last time he looked.

He exhales, more frustrated than tired, and turns over for the seventh, eighth, fifteenth time? 

By his calculations, he hasn’t slept in 72 hours, 34 minutes and…..

 _Huh_.

Keeping track of all these numbers _probably_ isn’t helping him out any, but he has to do _something_ to tire his brain out.  

It’s not just difficulty drifting off to sleep either, it’s _staying_ asleep for longer than 30 minutes. His rampant paranoia won’t allow it. But he’ll be damned if he takes anything to help him though, because _that’s_ what got him into this paranoid mess in the first place. That and the infrequent sightings of _Spaceboy_.

The italics in his head are absolutely necessary, because there's something about having your world view tilted sixty degrees that deserves emphasis.

Frustration screams beneath his skin. His senses refuses to settle and accept what both his rational mind and a multitude of external scans are telling him: there is nothing alive floating outside the station.

Nothing.

It was all just a hallucination brought on by medication and possible space _madness_.

Which, in the scheme of things, isn’t that bad because hallucinating half-naked Spaceboy’s has to be better than hearing voices that tell you to poke out your eyeballs or steer the station into the nearest sun.

In fact half-naked Spaceboy’s are almost _pleasant_ in comparison, and if that's all that there is, if that's the only weird side-effect to his prolonged solitude, or whatever than he should be grateful.

Seriously though—why’d he _have_ to hallucinate the guy half naked?

Why couldn’t he have hallucinated him in a shirt and tie, his favourite football team’s jersey, or a clown costume?

Actually—fuck that.

That’s the _last_ thing he needs. Space Clowns.

He exhales again because there isn't a hope in hell he's actually getting to sleep any time soon.

"Fuck it."

The duvet ends up trailing on the floor as Seungcheol rolls out of his bunk and—freezes.

There’s a flicker of blue in the corner of his vision. Seungcheol frowns, turning towards the viewport.

His insides go cold, a shockwave of icy denial coursing through him because the boy is _right there_ —floating at the viewport—peering inside his room like a nosey neighbour.

Seungcheol feels a taut, panicky flutter in the base of his throat. He’s standing there stiff as a mannequin, he knows it, holding on to something that he is almost certain is a scream. 

Slowly, Spaceboy floats closer to the window, presses his hand to the glass and _smiles_ and Seungcheol can’t even breathe he’s so fucking terrified.

“Oh….my god.” Seungcheol manages after a moment of incredulous gawking. 

Spaceboy’s smile wavers then, a furrow forming between his eyebrows, blatant worry re-writing his expressive face.

Suddenly he floats backwards, away from the window. The light from a the nearest White Dwarf is behind him, framing him in gold. Gold and silver, that’s how Seungcheol remembers it.

Because by the time Seungcheol rushes forward to press his nose to the glass—Spaceboy’s already gone.

The space where he stood is empty, as if he never was.

* * *

**DAY: 746**

Seungcheol does an inventory of his supplies the next day. He’s not sure what compels him to do it—but he has an inkling something’s not quite right when he sits down for breakfast and sees a jar of peanut butter on the shelf facing the wrong way round.

Living alone on a space station for over two years gives you plenty of spare time to be particular about things. Things you wouldn’t usually be particular about if you weren’t bored out of your mind. Things like how you organise your pantry.

For Seungcheol, everything is date rotated; perishable items at the front, lids tightly sealed and labels facing forward.

In the scheme of things, it’s a ridiculous thing to be obsessive about—but his attention to detail is rewarded when he completes his inventory and can’t account for 3 items.

One small carton of Orange juice, a protein bar and a vacuum-packed blueberry muffin.

It’s possible that he’s responsible for consuming those items—that he’d simply forgotten he’d eaten them, or slacked off when taking inventory _last_ time. But something tells him he isn’t 

* * *

  **DAY: 748**

Seungcheol can't decide whether to mention his ‘Visitor’ in his next weekly report to Earth.  

Are we alone in the universe? It’s one of those abstract notions certain people like to ponder. Crack-pots, for instance. Conspiracy theorists. Back at Central it’s been a topic of many deeply unserious, meandering late-night conversations.

It’s not a practical question. It has no direct application.

Except it does. And Seungcheol now knows the answer.

It's three solid days before his report is due—and so he spends every intervening moment replaying details in his head. Piecing together the surreal image he saw. Starlight through a narrow viewport. A figure floating in space without a suit. Astonishingly blue glowing eyes and silver hair. Unparalleled beauty.

But when the time comes to type it all out, the surreal moment is days behind him and he's had time enough to think better of it.

Too little information tends to worry people, but he's fairly sure that too much will worry them even more.

Some secrets are worth keeping, and Spaceboy is his.

* * *

**DAY: 751**

There’s a packet of mini Oreos missing today, and a Twinkie. Not exactly a nutritious choice.

Seungcheol’s not sure what fascinates him more; that Spaceboy is favouring highly-processed junk foods, or the fact that he eats at all.

Oddly, he’d always assumed that if he ever did come in contact with an advanced extra-terrestrial species, they would be some kind of prime elemental, levitating around and eating lotus blossoms or something.

But apparently, even Aliens have a sweet tooth.

* * *

**DAY: 753**

Grateful as Seungcheol is to be neither alone nor insane, he  _isn't_  happy with his mysterious new visitor.

For one thing, he never hangs around long enough for Seungcheol to wise up and snap a picture, so he can forward it to Central and say, _Ha—see. I'm not crazy!_

Secondly, Spaceboy has been stealing his Coca-Cola.

Accusing extra-terrestrial life of stealing your Cola is probably in some doctors list of space madness symptoms, but Seungcheol doesn’t give a shit.

He’s the victim here.

Since his mission began, Seungcheol’s restricted himself to two cola cans a month to carry him through to the end of his mission. The last time he counted, he had 18 cans—but now he’s 3 cans short.

  1. How many cola-cans does that leave Seungcheol?
  2. How many months will he live without Cola now that he is three cans short?
  3. Why are all his very serious adult life problems starting to sound like a fourth-grade textbook maths question? 



Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Seungcheol’s had about enough of this shit.

He’s going to take action.

Cola thievery is where he draws the line.

* * *

  **DAY: 755**

The ruse is a simple one really. Bait and switch.

Well, actually—there’s no switching involved. It’s more like, bait and knock the fuck out.

His uninvited guest is helping himself to his rations and Seungcheol is not above sacrificing a few cans of cola to catch the little levitating shit.

His first thought is to lace the cola with a strong sedative. Something to put the guy to sleep long enough that Seungcheol has time to search for his unconscious body. He spends an age trying to find a way to inject the sedative into the can _without_ compromising its appearance externally. But after giving himself several needle stick injuries, he decides to switch tactics.

Plan number 2 requires an electrified net. Which Seungcheol does not have. Nor does he know how to make. Plan number 2 promptly gets canned.

Plan number 3 consists of eating several bananas and then placing the peel in strategic locations, like doorways and narrow corridors. Seungcheol gets through eight bananas before his stomach protests and he decides— _fuck this_ —and just stacks the remainder of his cola cans in the centre of the mess hall and waits the guy out.

He’s hiding in an empty storage locker well past his bedtime, armed with a Phaser and amped up on caffeine when he hears the hiss of the mess hall door open.  

Holding his breath, Seungcheol presses closer to the locker door and listens.            

There's the quiet padding of footsteps on the metal floor, a pause followed by a heavy clunk, and then a tiny noise of surprise.

“Oooh.”

 _That’s_ Seungcheol cue.

He pushes the locker door open with a boot and immediately trains his Phaser on the interloper.

Spaceboy’s standing in front of the Coca-Cola pyramid, cradling a can in his palms almost _reverently_. He startles visibly when Seungcheol emerges, dropping the can and taking an instinctive step back, staring at Seungcheol with impossibly wide eyes.

The silence is overwhelming as they stare at each other.

It's on the tip of Seungcheol's tongue to say something, he doesn't know what—just something to take the edge off the situation—but then Spaceboy’s bright eyes blink and glance away from Seungcheol's face—downward— only _now_ seeming to register the weapon aimed at him.

If it weren't for the cluster of anxious sensations twisting in Seungcheol's chest, the look of incredulous horror Spaceboy levels at him could almost be funny. 

Spaceboy falls back another step. A third. Nostrils flaring with panic.

“No—wait—” Seungcheol begins, taking a step forward and raising his hand.

It’s clearly the _wrong_ thing to do. 

Spaceboy back pedals faster, then turns, making a run for the exit.

Seungcheol aims his gun at the edge of the door frame, intent on shooting it in warning—only for Spaceboy to slip on the banana peel Seungcheol had positioned there earlier and knock himself out on the hard metal floor.

Seungcheol stands there—stunned, staring between the unconscious Spaceboy, the weapon in his hand and the banana peel lying on the floor like a spent daffodil and out loud, he thinks, “Did that just happen?”

* * *

Yeah. Yeah it did happen, because ten minutes of staring later, Spaceboy is still knocked out cold on the floor and he doesn't appear to be disappearing any time soon.

Without hesitation, Seungcheol steps in close and scoops Spaceboy up into his arms.

He's light, but solid and _very real_ and Seungcheol's surprised to find the boy really isn't cold at all. Even though he should be, even though he's been floating around, half naked outside a space station, and he should be ice cold.

Seungcheol carries him to the med-bay, lays him out there on one of the bio-beds and carefully examines the back of his head for injuries.

Just a small bump. No serious damage. Nothing to worry about.

He should probably scan him, just to be sure. Maybe run a few tests or take a blood sample at least. But it all feels extremely invasive for a creature that has yet to cause him harm.

He grabs a foil blanket instead, drapes it over Spaceboy’s body to keep him warm.

Spaceboy’s lashes flutter briefly at the contact, mouth parting in a small noise of distress.

Seungcheol has a hand reaching out to sooth him instinctively, before he catches himself on and yanks it back.

There’s no protocol to handle what he’s facing here, but the last thing he should probably do is start _touching_ things.

He’s making first contact with an Alien species—one that could possibly disembowel him in seconds, slit his throats in even less, re-arrange his organs so he’s pissing blood out of his eyeballs.

Although, the longer he looks at his guest, the less likely any of that seems.

Spaceboy is _small_. He looks….not  _quite_  angelic, but almost, lying there features softened with sleep. His white hair looks almost translucent, falling in pastel, glittering strands across his forehead, and the milky paleness of his skin and delicate wispiness of his lashes give him a distinctive ethereal air.

_Fuck. He’s really .....beautiful._

Seungcheol jerks his gaze away quickly and steps out of the room, tapping the side panel to shut the door behind him.  

* * *

Seungcheol holds vigil in the observation room; chest tight, posture at instinctive attention as he watches Spaceboy’s unconscious form through a two-way mirror.

It’s not long before Spaceboy’s eyes blink open, bright and wide. There’s confusion in his expression as his gaze darts around the unfamiliar room.

He immediately sits up on the bio-bed, foil blanket fluttering untidily into his lap. He pulls his legs up, and spins sideways on the table, legs dangling off the edge. Then he slips off, bare feet almost soundless on the floor.

The bio-scanner on the wall draws his attention first, and he flicks through the settings with a careless sort of inattention before immediately being distracted by something else. The shiniest objects seem to attract him the most; metal instruments, coloured glass jars and flashing panels—even the foil blanket that has slipped to the floor gets a curious examination and a pleased ‘Ooh’.  

He's like an Alien _magpie_ ; eyes tracing each object, assessing it all for its viability to be reworked into something useful.

Seungcheol watches him carefully, while he pokes and prods around the med-bay, if only to ensure he doesn’t injure himself during his exploration.

Which is a big possibility, considering how _little_ protective clothing he’s wearing at this moment.

Seungcheol’s not sure if the white straps criss-crossing over his torso represent outer or inner clothing, but they protect his modesty only by the very loosest of definitions.

Gradually, Seungcheol finds his gaze, guiltily, sliding down the interloper’s lithe frame.

He can't help the fact that he's looking, that he can't seem to  _stop_  looking.

There's so much skin on display, every inch of it pale and slender, in a way that just seems overly  _naked_. Juts of vertebrae, and the sharp curves of shoulder blade and rib, more obvious when the boy twists or leans. The curve of less pedestrian body parts are _also_ visible, underneath the straps below the waist and leaving Seungcheol in no doubt whatsoever that he is looking at a _Male_ of the species.  

Then Spaceboy bends to examine something on the floor and….

 _Jesus_.

Seungcheol feels guilty about just how _much_ he's noticing. He averts his gaze quickly, ignoring the traitorous interest warming his stomach.

He should probably stop staring like a creep and introduce himself.

That would be the polite thing to do.

* * *

 

If Spaceboy is startled by his return, he doesn’t show it. He meets Seungcheol’s eyes steadily as the doors hiss open, carefully sets down the instrument he was studying and then raises a single hand in the air in the approximation of a salute.

Seungcheol thinks they’re about to have a moment. One of those _ET—phone home_ , glowing finger moments that he’ll write about in his Autobiography, suitably titled: _Spaceboy: My encounter with Half-Naked Aliens that stole my Cola._

Except Spaceboy decides to throw all that out the window by saying, “Sup.”

Seungcheol blinks at him.

After all the sleepless nights, the worrying and wondering he’s done, Seungcheol doesn’t know what he was expecting, exactly, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“Excuse me?” Seungcheol asks, with an appropriate measure of alarm and slowly-thawing shock.

Space boy pouts and lowers his hand. “Hmm. Human, Male, 27 earth cycles in age,” He says, ticking points off on his fingers.  “I believe that is the most common greeting amongst humans with those specifications. Perhaps my pronunciation was incorrect. Sup—supp— _suuup_? Do I need to elongate the word further, or was my hand gesture of companionship lacking? I was attempting a high five—but you ‘ _left me hanging’.”_ Spaceboy says.

Seungcheol doesn't even bother to ask how he knows what language to communicate in.

He’s more curious at how far too sensible the guy sounds. Seungcheol thought the humiliation of slipping on a banana peel and being captured during a ration raid would have at least shaken a little of the sensible _out_ of him.

He shakes his head in an attempt to get a grip on the situation.

“You’re not—you’re not Human, are you?” Seungcheol says with a quaver in his voice.

The observation earns him what he assumes is an affronted look—it's difficult to tell under the circumstances—and a haughty, “No, of course not. Look at me. I’m clearly superior to your species in every way.”

Seungcheol scoffs.

Unbelievable.

Yeah—this is not going to plan at all.

“I dunno dude, you look pretty human to me.” Seungcheol replies, crossing his arms and adopting a slouched posture. Fuck proper decorum. Beautiful space angel or not, he might have to spank this guy.

Spaceboy frowns. Then, slowly, a flicker of something like recognition passes behind his eyes.

“Ah, _dude_ —a term of mutual companionship amongst males. Yes, I suppose I am your _dude_ now. I saved your life, you returned the favour by attempting to kill me. We are each other’s _dudes_.”

Seungcheol keeps his expression bland with difficulty.  “I wasn’t trying to kill you, okay. I just wanted to capture you, to convince myself it wasn’t all in my head. You were floating in space for fucks sake—I mean—how do you even do that without a--”

“As I was saying before,” Spaceboy interrupts, as if he's used to cutting off other people's thoughts. “—I’m clearly a superior species.”

“No—you’re not.” Seungcheol stops, he honestly isn't sure whether to be offended or resigned. “You look human. You don’t even have that generic alien greeny blue tinted skin or anything.”

“How have you failed to notice my superiority in your intent examination of my body through the observation mirror?” Spaceboy answers, calm and sceptical.

Seungcheol doesn’t even have the wherewithal to contain his reaction to that. It’s not implausible for an Alien race to see through the illusion of a two-way mirror, but he didn’t think he’d been staring _that_ intently.

Or had he?

Seungcheol shakes his head to clear it. “Listen, you look……very nice. But that’s not the point. The point is -"

Oh, God, what was the point again?

“The point is— _superior_ is a pretty strong word to just throw around when your species don’t have any distinguishing features compared to us. _You look human_ —except maybe, you’re a little more—compact? Kind of small—by adult male standards anyway. What are you? Five foot three?”

That makes Spaceboy laugh, one quick, bright noise.

“Exactly. That’s what makes me superior. In comparison to your species, I am resourcefully sized.”

“You can say that again.” Seungcheol answers in his driest tone.

“I am resourcefully sized.” Spaceboy says again, because sarcasm doesn’t apply to him apparently.  

“Okay, fine. You’re small. Congratulations. That doesn’t make you superior.” Seungcheol snaps, resolve and patience fraying.

Spaceboy looks up at him from under a curl of hair as if he’s absolutely dense.

“Of course it does. I take up less space, and I use less resources. That makes me superior.”

Seungcheol snorts. “Maybe on your planet that’s worthy of celebration. But on Earth, we value people’s worth on other things. Just because you’re slim and……” Seungcheol makes an all encompassing gesture, “ _Sleek_ , doesn’t make you _better_.”

Spaceboy grows quiet for a moment.

He stares at Seungcheol thoughtfully before saying, “Sleek wasn’t the word you were going to use, was it.”

Seungcheol can't quite stop the tangle of embarrassment and confusion that comes on that.

Sleek _wasn’t_ the word he was going to use if he’s being honest. But his first choice wouldn’t have been appropriate for their first meet and greet.

A worrying thought suddenly occurs to him. "Hold on a minute. Are you reading my _mind_?"

Spaceboy offers him a slow, lazy blink.

"If you like."

"No...no,” Seungcheol shakes his head. “I wouldn't like, please, I wouldn't like that at all."

Spaceboy nods slowly, "Very well. But I could—if I wanted to, which is another reason why our species are _far_ more superior to yours. Our intelligence and foresight are unparalleled.”

Seungcheol sighs and rolls his eyes. “And yet—I managed to capture you using the oldest trick in the book. If you’re so damn smart—why didn’t your Spidey senses warn you about the banana peel you slipped on?”

“Perhaps I _wanted_ you to capture me.” Spaceboy says.

There's a look there that's almost flirtatious, though Seungcheol suspects it's entirely accidental.

_“Did you?”_

“No.” Spaceboy pouts. “I was hungry, and running low on rations.”

Seungcheol quirks an eyebrow. “Is that why you’ve been stealing food from me?”

Spaceboy levels him a disgusted look, like he would never do something so awful as 'steal,' and how dare Seungcheol be so honest as to label his blatant thievery as stealing.

“My ship malfunctioned when I traversed through the rift. I had to tether my vessel to yours to inspect the damage, but then discovered my communications system had also been damaged. I could not be assured that help would arrive despite my distress signal, so I ventured out on the off-chance I could find something on board this station I could utilise for the repairs. I did not realise it was inhabited until I saw you floating adrift, by which time I had already sabotaged a few of your radiation panels for parts and acquired a fuel cell. I would not have done so had I known a living being was on board. As for your rations—I only took what I needed to survive.”

Seungcheol makes a face. “Really? You need Cola to survive?”

Spaceboy’s gaze drops to the floor, as if the answer lies there.

“ _No_. But, you guarded it so carefully I was intrigued. Then when I had my first taste, I was captivated by its carbonated charm.”

Seungcheol tries not to eyeball Spaceboy while he waxes lyrical about the wonders of Cola. He thought _he_ had it bad.

“Did you ever think of—I dunno,” Seungcheol gestures erratically. “Knocking? Saying, _Hello, my ship’s broken—I need help_.”

Spaceboy frowns, as if it had honestly never occurred to him.

“I did attempt to approach you on several occasions. But you became so distressed, I retreated.”

Seungcheol huffs through his nose. That sure does explain a lot.

“Well—you were a half-naked floating man. I thought I was losing my fucking mind. Maybe the concept of space exploration is new to you, but in the future, when you come across a new species—don’t float towards them slowly, then disappear from view the minute they turn their back.”

Spaceboy at least has the decency to look chastised.

“I was attempting a tentative approach. I’ve never interacted with another life-form before.” He concedes reluctantly.

“No shit. Cause you suck at it.”  

It's the wrong thing for Seungcheol to say. What little candour has snuck into Spaceboy's expression vanishes, disappearing behind a guarded wall. 

“I did not intend to cause you harm. If you release me, I will return the items I took for repairs and untether my ship. My designation is to explore the galaxy, not to cause an incident between our--”

“No!” Seungcheol blurts out suddenly.

The word gets him a gently raised eyebrow. On a human that would be surprise, on him it manages to be something else entirely.

“ _No_?”

“You can’t leave.” Seungcheol says, before he's entirely sure he's going to say it.

Spaceboy makes a gesture at him which can only be described as huffy. “As I suspected. You have captured me as your prisoner. May I make one final request before you decapitate me?”

Seungcheol eyeballs him, “What? No—no. I’m not going to decapitate—” he struggles for the right words, runs an agitated hand through his hair, then sighs. “Sorry—that was a poor choice of words. What I meant was—you can stay here if you want. Till you fix your ship, or help comes.” He clarifies.

For a perfectly visible second Spaceboy looks honestly surprised, like he hadn't expected that at all.

For all his careful deductions Seungcheol has actually managed to surprise him.

“That seems to be a very impulsive decision on your part. From what I’ve observed of Humans, you are an impulsive species that often regret their choices later. Therefore, I would suggest you think carefully about your offer before you suggest it again.”

Seungcheol gets the distinct impression that this is his last chance to back out.

And he probably should.

It's crazy to make such a decision without consulting Central, when Seungcheol is painfully aware his judgment is compromised. But he fully intends to do it anyway.

"I haven't changed my mind, you’re welcome to stay." he says simply.

Spaceboy studies him, quite leisurely, as if judging something very important. At last his mouth thins not an unhappy line.

“That still seems very impulsive—"

“Look—pal.” Seungcheol interjects, blandly. “I’ve been living here by myself for 2 years, keeping the station running while the assholes back home record data about this section of space. It wouldn’t hurt to have company, and there’s plenty of room. Stay till your friends come rescue you, okay. I don’t bite.”

Spaceboy watches him silently for several seconds before nodding, tension easing from his shoulders.

He raises his hand in the air again, an oddly hopeful look on his face.

“High five?” He chirps, as though this slumber party in space is his idea. Obliging pixie, this one.

“Uh. _Alright_.” Seungcheol says, raising a hand.

It shouldn’t be possible to fuck up a high five, but somehow, they manage it.

Seungcheol ends up with his hand hovering in mid-air, while Spaceboy tilts forward and smacks him across the face for some reason.

Seungcheol hopes his expression conveys how unimpressed he is about that.

Spaceboy doesn’t even look sorry about it.

“Oh. I miscalculated the trajectory of your high-five. Shall we attempt that again?”

“How about a handshake instead?” Seungcheol says, pre-empting any unwanted follow-up by holding his hand out.

There's a very long pause where his hand is left alone in mid-air, long enough that Seungcheol starts to think Spaceboy has no intention of shaking hands. Maybe a hand shake in his world is actually a declaration of _war_ , or something else entirely. Like an invitation into some perverse sex act involving tentacles and human sacrifice.

Seungcheol’s not quite sure how to take his hand back without looking awkward—though looking awkward is something he's gradually admitting to himself is something he may have to get used to from now on.

Really the only way to do it is to just drop it, and pretend it doesn't bother him in the slightest. He's about to do exactly that when his hand is clasped, not with a tentacle—thank fuck—but with one of Spaceboy’s hands.

The shake hands briefly. Just long enough for Seungcheol to feel a pleasant tingle travel up his arm, a crackling all along his nerves, before Spaceboy slips his hand away.

“Jihoon.” Spaceboy adds, when that seems to be a useful piece of information. 

Seungcheol blinks at him stupidly, rubbing his still tingling palm against his pants leg. “What does that mean?”

Spaceboy flashes a patronizing smile. “It’s my _name_.”

“Oh. Right, right.” Seungcheol smiles sheepishly. “I’m Seungcheol. Nice to meet you.”


	2. Diplomatic measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jihoon, being Jihoon, doing Alien Jihoon things.

Seungcheol would have expected to have more questions for an Alien, when he finally had the opportunity to meet one.

Questions about space travel and exotic worlds and advanced technological wonders. Maybe even a debate about the meaning of life that would actually put to rest some far out religious theories. He even expected a _‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’_ anatomy show and tell that would go a long way in settling his curiosity about the multiple hidden appendages Jihoon may or may not have.

Frustratingly, none of that happens.

It’s mostly Seungcheol’s fault.

There is a significant amount of need-to-know that he feels he really needs to know here, but he hasn’t exactly been trained in inter-species diplomacy. Or diplomacy of any kind really. And he can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound stupid or childish or could potentially spark an intergalactic _war_.

So, he’s carefully keeping his mouth shut, until he can think of something clever.

Most of his brain is still too busy processing the idea that Jihoon is _real_ , and not some figment of his imagination.

Although he can’t rule that theory out just yet.

Seungcheol’s no stranger to imaginary friends, and he’s had his fair share growing up on a military base with few other children around to play with. As he grew older, they’d slowly faded into obscurity—but they had been sources of comfort and entertainment when he was at his loneliest, helping him settle and adjust to new schools every time his family moved from base to base.

So it’s completely plausible that here, in the emptiness of space, Jihoon is a _grown-up_ version of one.

It would certainly explain why the alien looks so normal and, well— _un-alien_ like. Or why he can speak a human language so well. Seungcheol's still a little stuck on the fact that this supposed Alien speaks in a Gyeongsang dialect, which is oddly unexpected.

Of course, it could just be that Jihoon’s species are advanced enough to pick up a new form of communication in minutes. As is the likelihood of them studying human forms of communication in preparation for a full-scale alien invasion!

Seungcheol’s brain can’t decide on which, so he’s staying quiet until he can make sense of it all.

Jihoon seems disinclined to ask any questions either, so a strange, awkward silence has descended between them as they make their way from the Med-bay towards the East wing of the station, where the flight deck and personnel suites and other associated minutia of living are housed.

Seungcheol is attempting, in his own friendly way, to give Jihoon a tour of sorts—because that’s the _polite_ thing to do when you have a guest staying over. Alien or not.

Though Jihoon doesn’t seem all that interested by the technological aspects of the station itself and maintains the same politely bored expression throughout the tour, as if he’s already analysed everything and deemed it unworthy.

He does however, get excited over things you _wouldn’t_ expect.

Like the Guardians of the Galaxy Groot bobble head Seungcheol has sitting on the flight console.

When Jihoon first spots it, it's impossible to miss the way his face lights up in an instantaneous grin, eyes flashing bright and cheeks dimpling.

“What is it?” He asks, gesturing at the tiny figurine with excitable, twitchy fingers.

“It’s uhm—Groot. It’s a bobble head.” Seungcheol explains, reaching over the console to flick it.

The bobble head bounces back and forth and Jihoon’s giggling laughter catches Seungcheol off guard. He looks back at Jihoon, and find him grinning like an idiot, like a kid who’s just been given his golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. And he’s looking at Seungcheol like...

Like Seungcheol just performed a magic trick for him.

The sight makes Seungcheol's breath catch—leaves his chest feeling too tight with some emotion he refuses to name.

“It’s very impressive.” says Jihoon, smile somehow managing to spread wider on his face. “We don’t have anything like it on our home world.”

Seungcheol nods quietly. That’s probably for the best—seeing as they’ll inevitably be a source of distraction for their entire species.

Honestly. He’s never seen anyone so mesmerized by a bobble head before.

He stands back in silence as Jihoon ignores all the high-tech machinery and flight controls and flashing screen read-outs to poke at the Groot bobble head over and over, like a captivated kitten.

Seungcheol's half tempted to ask what his huge Alien brain is thinking, but his own is derailed when Jihoon speaks up first.  

“What is your designation?”

Seungcheol blinks and struggles to get it together enough to respond.  “Ah—designation?”

“Objective? Role? Your purpose—for being on this station?” Jihoon clarifies. He is still playing with the figurine, but cocks his head to the side and says, without looking up, “I doubt you have chosen to live out here alone for _leisure_.”

“Oh, right. Well, it’s maintenance mostly. The station itself is a research base, but the computer does most of the research. I’m kind of just the pilot come caretaker.” Seungcheol answers.

Jihoon turns to face him fully at that. “So, you are _not_ a scientist?”

“Who— _me_? Hell no.” Seungcheol laughs, shaking his head. “Scientists are too valuable to be up here—I’m just the jarhead with nothing better to do.”

“A _soldier_ then.” Jihoon says carefully, nodding. “That explains your muscular physique and proficiency with fire arms.”

Seungcheol's not sure if that's a compliment. He's tempted to treat it like a compliment. It's probably best to treat it like a compliment.

“Uh— _thanks_.”

“You have very large biceps.” Jihoon announces suddenly, standing up. He reaches out, fingers playing along Seungcheol’s arm. “They’re very—interesting. I like them.” He says with sincerity, giving the right one a little _squeeze_.

Seungcheol’s absolutely taking _that_ as a compliment, and he’s absolutely going to flex a little too, because he’s worked hard on his body and it’s about time someone was around to appreciate it.

Jihoon squeezes his bicep long enough for it to be weird—though he shows no signs of registering it as weird, and no intention of stopping either.

Seungcheol’s pretty happy to let him continue, as long as he refrains from squeezing him curiously _elsewhere_.

“We do not have soldiers on my home planet.” Jihoon offers suddenly, dropping his hand—then doesn't say anything else.

Perhaps he thinks the pause makes him sound _mysterious_.

Seungcheol scoffs. “Let me guess—cause you’ve evolved past primitive concepts like _war_. You’re a timid, peace faring people who resolve all their differences with healthy debate and _research_.”

“Precisely.” Jihoon chirps, failing to detect Seungcheol’s healthy smattering of sarcasm.

“So, what—you’re an entire race of super intelligent scientists?” Seungcheol scoffs again. “No offence, but that sounds _dull_.”

“It can be sometimes.” Jihoon murmurs. There's something odd about the way he says it, a stiffness that says he's not used to telling people about himself, maybe not used to other people at all. “It is one of the many reasons I embarked on this journey. I wished to explore the galaxies and seek out new forms of life—compare them to our race. I have observed 32 different species since, but humanity is the one I find the most fascinating.”

“Really?” Seungcheol blinks, “Why?”

Jihoon steps around him to look out the viewport, hands crossed behind his back. “Earth has a multitude of cultural, religious and racial differences, yet you humans manage to exist— _relatively_ harmoniously with each other. All other species I have observed tend to conform with a single way of life, or destroy each other in conflict when they differ. Although you are a technologically underdeveloped species—I think there is much to learn from your ability to _co-habitate.”_

Seungcheol grins, a little proud. “Yeah—we’re pretty awesome.”

Jihoon smiles at him over his shoulder, “And you have large biceps.”

Seungcheol smirks. “You’re an arms guy, huh? Don’t blame ya.” He flexes deliberately, for show. “My swans are pretty sick right now.”

Jihoon turns to face him, giving him a very slow and deliberate once over that lingers at his lower region longer than is strictly appropriate.

“I wish to examine _more_ of your body, if you’ll allow me.” He says, in a weird, awed sort of voice.

It's the tone, more than the words, that leaves Seungcheol blinking in surprise. He is sure there's a sensible answer to that. Somewhere.

“Are you asking me to get naked?”

That’s probably not it, but the words escape Seungcheol’s mouth before he can’t stop them.

Thankfully, Jihoon doesn’t take him up on the offer immediately.

He shakes his head, “Not now. It must be in your natural habitat. If you are aware that you’re are being observed, it will affect the validity of my results. I will examine you when you least expect it.”

“ _Okayyy_.” Seungcheol drawls, and it's somewhere between good-natured and 'ready to be freaked out.'

The idea of Jihoon observing him when he least expects it is not very reassuring.

They move on from the flight deck to the recreation room, then down to the Greenhouse for a spell, before finally approaching the living quarters.

“What is this room?” Jihoon asks just as they reach a door at the end of the corridor, doors sliding open automatically.

“Oh, uh—this is the bathroom.” Seungcheol says, standing back as Jihoon steps inside.

Jihoon’s head tilts this way and that, then recognition flickers across his face. “What a relief. For a moment I was beginning to fear your species _ingested_ your own faeces.”

“Ew— _what_?” Seungcheol gapes, but Jihoon’s already distracted examining the toilet bowl intently.

“Interesting.” He mumbles, tapping his chin. “We have a similar design for faecal matter disposal on our world. I did not expect to find it here too. Thankfully, your species are more advanced than I originally presumed.”

“So your species shit too huh?” Seungcheol says, crossing his arms. “And here I thought you were going to claim your species is _above_ shitting altogether.”

“I believe our digestive systems are much the same.” Jihoon explains, missing or possibly ignoring the sharpness of Seungcheol’s voice. And then, the furrow at the centre of his brow deepens with fresh confusion, “Of course I can’t be certain of that until I thoroughly examine your lower digestive tract.”

Seungcheol doesn't answer for a long count of ten: choosing to let the silence speak his shock for him.

“If I didn’t know any better…. I would swear you’re coming on to me.” He says, suspiciously.

That gets him the patented 'I have no idea what you're talking about' face of sideways-ness from Jihoon. Who really shouldn’t be allowed to say things like ‘I like your biceps’ and ‘I may wish to anally probe you’ and make out like _Seungcheol’s_ the weird one.

“What does this button do?” Jihoon asks, gesturing at the toilet flush.

He doesn’t wait for Seungcheol to answer before pushing it _down_.

The sound of the toilet flushing proceeds a high-pitched scream and a comical scramble, right into Seungcheol’s arms. Before Seungcheol knows what’s happening, Jihoon’s clawing at his shoulders, trying to climb over him by the look and feel of it.

“Woah, easy— _easy_.” Seungcheol breathes, too stunned to do much more than hold the petite Alien steadily. Possibly because he hasn't worked up enough 'what the hell?' yet.

Soon enough the roaring sound of the flush— _and Jihoon’s squealing_ —die down, and the alien goes limp and breathless in his arms.  

“What was that?” Jihoon pants, fingers still curled around Seungcheol’s shoulders in a death grip.

Seungcheol quirks a surprised brow at him. “I was about to ask you the same question. Why did you react like that?”

Jihoon looks up at him, eyes blown wide. He wrinkles his nose. “It _yelled_ at me.”

Seungcheol barely stifles a snort. He lets his hold on Jihoon ease, takes a step away, just barely outside the bubble of Jihoon's personal space.

“It’s just the flush. Toilets flush—yanno, to _dispose_ of the waste.”

Jihoon glances over his shoulder at the toilet, his cheeks turn a displeased shade of pink.  “Why must it do it so loudly?”

Seungcheol bites his lip. He’s having trouble keeping a straight face. “I dunno. Maybe cause it had bigger aspirations in life, but now it’s just a toilet and it’s angry about people sitting on its face all the time.”

Jihoon makes a very quiet noise of surprise.

He seems to approve of that explanation, which may be the most unintentionally hilarious thing ever.

They spend almost half an hour in the bathroom together, just so Jihoon can acclimatise himself to the sound of the flush without scaring himself. Then another ten minutes just discovering the wonders of hand soap and toilet paper.

Seungcheol’s never spent so much time in a bathroom before, and definitely not with another person there—asking him questions.

He never thought that such simple everyday objects would be so fascinating to an Alien, but watching Jihoon admire the texture of triple-quilted toilet roll gives him a new appreciation for life’s little luxuries.

* * *

 

“This can be your room.” Seungcheol says, leading Jihoon into the spare room.

It’s a small space compared to Seungcheol’s quarters, minimally furnished with the essentials and noticeably lacking a viewport. It’s a tad too clinical for Seungcheol’s tastes, but serves its function as a spare bunk when two flight officers are on board during transfer of duty.  

Jihoon walks the circuit of the room like he's slumming, picks up a paperweight on the small desk, and puts it down again, dismissively. 

 _You just had the time of your life exploring the bathroom kid. Maybe tone down the princess act—_ Seungcheol thinks, but knows better than to voice out loud.

“I know it’s pretty sparse,” He says, fiddling with the temperature control dial on the wall, “But the station is designed to house one person at a time and every inch of space up here has to be accounted for. It will probably look homier when you’ve moved your stuff in.”

“Stuff?” Jihoon repeats slowly, as if he’s weighing the meaning on the word. “If by that—you mean belongings, I am not in possession of any. We are a simplistic race that do not hold sentimental attachment to objects of materialistic value. I only ever carry my tricorder for research purposes.” He explains, retrieving something tucked under the strap stretched over his hip.

Seungcheol half expects some sort of shiny, eyeball melting cutting-edge technology—but Jihoon’s ‘ _Tricorder’_ looks like a pretty run of the mill _Dictaphone_. Either that or alien technology disguised to look like an ordinary Dictaphone.

“This is my tricorder,” Jihoon explains, holding it up proudly. “It has many uses, but I mainly use it to analyse samples and record my research. It’s my most valued tool. Would you like to inspect it?”

“Oh, uhm, no. I’m good thanks.” Seungcheol refuses—only to belatedly wonder if that's rude.

What constitutes rude to an alien? Do aliens even _have_ rudeness?

Seungcheol wasn’t trying to be rude, but he’s afraid of accidentally blowing up the space station with Jihoon’s Dictaphone.

Jihoon pouts and tucks the Tricorder away quietly, confirming Seungcheol’s fear that he’s offended him in some way by not showing more interest in his snazzy Alien Dictaphone.

“What is this item?” Jihoon asks next. Completely unaware of Seungcheol having a minor panic attack—or at least he hopes he's unaware of it.

Seungcheol turns to see Jihoon pointing at a toothbrush, nestled amongst some spare toiletries on the nightstand. His fingers are hovering close, but not touching, like he's afraid the toothbrush will _yell_ at him.

“It’s a toothbrush.” Seungcheol explains.

“A tooth- _brush_?” Jihoon echoes, “What does it do?” He adds with a quizzical wrinkle of his forehead.

Seungcheol is irrationally annoyed by the very difficulty of having to explain what a toothbrush is.

“The name pretty much says it all. A tooth brush is for brushing your teeth. Cleaning them.”

“I _see_.” Jihoon drawls, like that fact hadn’t been obvious from the start.

He’s braver about picking it up now, examining it intently as he holds it up towards the light.

“How prehistoric. Are you not in possession of any Dexymethoflurocynic mist?” He asks, raising his eyebrows at Seungcheol expectantly.

“Uh—no. All out of that.” Seungcheol scratches his head and shrugs. “Just good old-fashioned toothpaste and elbow grease.”

Jihoon actually pauses at that, like he might be thinking. Seungcheol isn't sure what that means, but he hopes it's a good sign.

“Why would I require elbow grease to cleanse my mouth? Surely such a thing would be best suited—for the elbow?”

For a minute Seungcheol thinks he’s making a joke. But no—Jihoon looks absolutely serious. He’s still frowning at the toothbrush, like it's complicated rocket science or something. Though what does Seungcheol know, maybe to an Alien it is. Maybe something as simple as a toothbrush is bewildering to an advanced race.

“I will require more of these.” Jihoon announces, thumbing the bristles of his toothbrush.

“What? Why? You don’t need a separate toothbrush for every tooth.” Seungcheol points out. Then his gaze drifts lower unconsciously. “Unless you have teeth hiding somewhere I don’t _know_ about.”

Jihoon sighs, like he’s read his mind. “No. I only intend to use one for it’s original purpose. The others I require for experimentation.”

“You want to experiment…..on a toothbrush?” Seungcheol says dryly.

“Yes. I must learn all its secrets.” Jihoon says in that unnecessarily portentous tone he’s so fond of.

“There are no secrets—it’s a toothbrush.”

Jihoon frowns, head tilted. “How can you be sure if you’ve never conducted an experiment yourself?”

Seungcheol resists the urge to cross his arms. He has nothing to be defensive about here. “I _have_ conducted an experiment. I conduct experiments all the time—at night, when I brush my teeth, and first thing in the morning too. Sometimes I conduct experiments with my toothbrush after a meal. And _sometimes_ I use a spare toothbrush to clean in between the spaces of my keyboard.”

“ _Really_.” Jihoon gasps, eyeballing the toothbrush like it’s just gotten 200% more interesting.

If possible, he holds the toothbrush more reverently than before. Seungcheol never thought he would see someone stare worshipfully at a toothbrush, but there you go.

“You must share your findings with me. I’m sure you have much valued data you can share.” Jihoon adds excitedly.

“Sure. Whatever. I’ll send you my _thesis_.” Seungcheol says, because yeah, he's just going to go with that.

He quickly moves over the storage locker in the corner and yanks it open, before they end up spending all day talking about toothbrushes.

“Since you don’t have any of your own, there’s spare clothing in here you can have.” Seungcheol says, pulling out a vacuum-packed set of regulation clothing and dropping it on the bed. “I doubt we keep your size, but they’re warm at least. I’m sure you must be uhm… _freezing_.” He drawls, carefully not staring at the obvious lack of clothing.  

Jihoon waves his free hand. "No, I’m fine. My body will adjust my temperature soon enough. It’s advanced like that."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes because of course Jihoon’s not cold, his magnificent brain probably keeps him warm after all.

"Still, you're practically naked." Seungcheol says, perhaps a little too hurriedly.

Jihoon turns around, momentarily losing interest in the toothbrush to give Seungcheol a puzzled look.

He seems to think the straps are fine.

The straps are  _not_  fine.

Certainly not the way Jihoon is wearing them—not wearing them to be precise.

Jihoon sets the toothbrush down on the nightstand and glances down at his _not-clothing_ with a frown. “My uniform may look simple, but the material is highly advanced and durable. It’s designed specifically for space travel. Don’t you like it?”

Seungcheol swallows thickly, still trying not to look at the amount of bare flesh on display.

"It's certainly _different_." He says, in what he hopes is an appropriately casual tone of voice.

Jihoon looks...complicated at that.

"Am I to understand that in this context 'different' does not necessarily mean good?"

“No, it’s just….” Seungcheol trails off awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. He wonders whether to be honest answering that, or whether to be diplomatic. He eventually decides that there's no way he can keep 'diplomatic' up for however long Jihoon will be staying here. “Don’t you _have_ more modest clothing in your world, or do you all walk around half naked all the time?”

Jihoon doesn't look offended, he seems more pleased at Seungcheol's inability to be diplomatic. “Clothing is such a confining construct. Our species have evolved beyond the need for excessive fabrics.”

“It’s not about a _need_.” Seungcheol grits out. “Humans don’t _need_ to wear clothes to survive. Unless they live in extreme climates or something. Clothing has other uses, albeit fashion, or culture or representation. Most importantly, it’s about the _comfort_ of other people. Strolling around half naked around practical strangers is _kind of_ frowned upon.”

Jihoon's mouth tilts up at the corner. A smile that's barely there. His head tilts, white hair covering one of his eyes. “So—does my current attire cause you _discomfort_?”

Seungcheol bites the inside of his cheek. “Yeah—a little bit.”

Jihoon looks like he's tucking that piece of information away for later. “What a fussy, pedantic people you are.”

“Just put on some damn clothes.” Seungcheol snaps, exasperation is warring audibly with his desperation, and at this point he doesn’t even care whether that's suggestive, or incriminating. Or some other complicated thing that gets him in trouble. Because trying to police his own brain when he's around a beautiful, naked alien is, most likely, the fastest way to send him completely round the bend.

“As you wish.” Jihoon sighs, pushing one of straps down his shoulder.

“Woah—woah.” Seungcheol raises his hands quickly to stop him mid strip. He laughs, quick and breathless, then edges towards the door. “Wait till I get out of the room first.”

Jihoon looks genuinely surprised at that, like he expected Seungcheol to sit and _watch_ him take his straps off in the pursuit of science or something.

* * *

 

When Jihoon emerges from his room moments later, he looks a lot less like an ethereal half naked alien and more like a……

Well, he’s pretty fucking adorable if Seungcheol’s being honest.

The white long-sleeved shirt swallows him up and hangs off the ends of his hands like paws. Size-wise, the pants are even worse. They droop down past his ankles and cover his feet entirely. It leaves him looking no less ethereal than before, but significantly less naked, which was mostly what Seungcheol had been aiming for.

“You are correct about these not being my size.” Jihoon mumbles, frowning down at the way the cuffs of his pants sag.

“ _Yeah_.” Seungcheol sighs wistfully—then makes himself stop staring, before it becomes obvious that he's staring.

Jihoon takes a step forward, but as he does, his foot gets caught in the cuff of his too long pants and he topples.

Seungcheol catches his arm before he falls over, righting him quickly on his feet.

“These are extremely hazardous.” Jihoon huffs. He rubs the back of his neck, looking vaguely embarrassed. “How am I supposed to move unhindered when the material is clearly designed to hinder my movement!”

“Just—roll em up.” Seungcheol offers.

Jihoon gives him a helplessly frustrated look from under his hair. “Roll em up?”

Seungcheol sighs, dropping to one knee. He rolls up the cuffs of Jihoon’s joggers until they just brush his ankles—but leaves the sweater paws as they are, because they’re _precious_.

“There we are.” He smiles, straightening up again. “I’m sure we can find a safety pin somewhere and secure them in place. Stop them from rolling down again. Or we could just trim them to your length if you like.”

Jihoon makes a noise in his throat, curious. “How innovative of you. Show me how you did that again—but on these,” He says, lifting his sweater paws into view. “I must document it—for my research.”

Seungcheol presses his finger and thumb against the bridge of his nose and exhales.

Something tells him this living arrangement is going to be exhausting.

* * *

 

Exhausting turns out to be mostly true, since Jihoon has a million and one questions about every inanimate object he interacts with on the station. Which Seungcheol supposes is _somewhat_ understandable given the curious nature of his species. But for an Alien interested in studying humans, Jihoon doesn't seem to be interested in perfecting his knowledge of social convention, or observation of personal space, and he has a certain...offensive form of honesty.

Almost a weaponised form, if Seungcheol's being honest.

“Your ears stick out quite obviously.” Jihoon point out, observing Seungcheol’s ears intently like they’re some kind of fascinating experiment.  

Seungcheol scratches behind his left ear self-consciously.

“Yeah, well…..”He flounders for something insulting to reply with, "You’re _short_.”

Jihoon cocks his head to one side without speaking. He kind of looks like a cat that can't decide whether to scratch someone when he does that head tilt thing.

“Yes. We already established that my species are smaller than yours earlier. I believe we both agreed it made me superior.” He says, just as confidently as he says everything else.

Seungcheol makes a face. “No, we didn’t!”

Jihoon has the _gall_ to roll his eyes at him.

“Regardless. I am not interested in discussing my species. I’d much prefer to discuss your ears. Why do they stick out so much? Does it give you heightened hearing?” He asks, looking honestly curious.

Seungcheol glares at him for that.

He doesn't  _think_  Jihoon is mocking him, although he has no way of being sure. He blows out a frustrated breath, then rises from his seat because he has definitely reached his _'being unintentionally insulted by Aliens_ ,' limit. 

“Look—as flattering as this conversation is, I really need to get to work. I got maintenance to take care of…and other shit.”

Jihoon stands too, looking excited. “Excellent. This will give me a good opportunity to observe you in your natural routine. Continue as you would normally. Pretend like I’m not here.”

Which really is easier said then done, especially when Jihoon proceeds to follow him around the station like a stray kitten—always hovering a good distance away, but still visible in Seungcheol’s periphery. Occasionally he’ll mumble something into his tricorder, but mostly it’s just long tense minutes of blank staring, as if Seungcheol might, at any moment, do something interesting and he doesn't want to miss it.

If Seungcheol ever just stops what he’s doing and stares back—Jihoon holds his position, and they end up just staring at each other silently for an age.

Seungcheol should probably be flattered by the attention—but being the sole focus of Jihoon’s current fascination is unnerving and frankly, a little dangerous.

He’s so distracted by Jihoon’s presence he cocks up more than a few routine maintenance tasks. Tasks he’s completes a hundred time before and _usually_ with eyes closed. He has to start from scratch more often than not, and the most annoying thing is—he _knows_ Jihoon’s documenting it all. He’s compiling a list somewhere, about the clumsiness of humans and it’s all because of Seungcheol.

Seungcheol’s telegraphing his actions now, overthinking every movement—just in case Jihoon records it his research or uses it to generalise the behaviours of the entire human race. It’s a colossal pain in the ass second guessing yourself, but Seungcheol doesn’t want to be the one responsible for the Alien research article titled: O _bservational study of humans and their ass scratching habits._

It continues like this for much of the day, until Seungcheol heads down to the flight deck to initiate a few scheduled scans and hears a sharp yelp from somewhere behind him.

Panicking, he drops his data pad on the flight console and rushes back up to steps to the main level. Rounding the corner quickly, he stumbles upon Jihoon curled up on the floor. He’s clutching his foot and swearing under his breath, sharp hissed out consonants which Seungcheol can't decipher.

“Shit—what happened?” Seungcheol says quickly, forehead denting in a deep frown as he studies the petite Alien for signs of injury.

Everything looks intact, but there could be a fracture he can’t see, internal bleeding that’s not immediately obvious.

“I have been injured.” Jihoon croaks out.

Seungcheol crouches down next to him, rubbing a soothing hand down his back. “Where? How?”

“I was attacked, by that—that _thing_.” Jihoon whimpers, gesturing at a metal column that acts as a support between the two decks.

Seungcheol stares at the metal column and deduces that the likelihood of it moving from where it’s literally welded into the floor to ‘attack’ Jihoon is very improbable. It’s far more likely that Jihoon ran into it when he was distracted with his _observations_.

“So, what you’re saying is—you stubbed your toe?”

Jihoon huffs quietly, as though this distinction is clearly a gross simplification.

“Yes. But I do not feel that s _tubbed_ is a suitably grave word for the pain I’m experiencing.”

Seungcheol sighs, relieved it’s not something more serious. “Well—that’s what happens when you walk around the station barefoot. I’ll try and find you some suitable footwear later. Just be happy you didn’t step on a Lego brick.” He reassures him.

Jihoon doesn't look reassured.

In fact, if anything he looks even less happy now, and seriously, any more misery and his face is going to turn itself inside out.

“I am injured.” Jihoon sniffs, in a tragically unbearable way, and now there are tears in the corner of his eyes, and Seungcheol gets it—he does; stubbing your toe is right up there in the pain spectrum alongside childbirth and getting kicked in the balls, but he refuses to believe that this might be the first time Jihoon’s stubbed his toe and says as much.

“C’mon, this can’t be the first time you’ve stubbed your toe.”

“It is.” Jihoon sniffs quietly, “Your vessel has such a cumbersome design, very unlike the sleek, safe design of our ships. Now my toe has fallen victim to its structural ungainliness.” He sniffs again, lip curling into a pout. “You will have to amputate my foot.”

Seungcheol can't help the short bark of laughter that comes out of him. Then decides to hell with it, and just laughs outright. It’s loud and gut-heaving, the kind of laughter that feels bottomless.

Jihoon's eyes go wide with surprise and then bright with outrage. He glares at Seungcheol, like he’s not being sympathetic enough, then shifts his gaze to glare accusingly at his foot like it conspired on being stubbed without his consent, then he ducks his head and sniffs again.

“You mock my pain.” He murmurs, looking up at Seungcheol through his fringe, eyes wide and wet, making Seungcheol feel gooey and guilty.

“Aww, hey—don’t.” Seungcheol coos, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah, it hurts, but the pain will fade away soon enough. Here—let me look.”  He says, kneeling down and capturing Jihoon’s ankle.

He would have expected—due to the lack of shoes that Jihoon’s feet would be tough. He expected to find hard skin, calluses or even scars across the bottom. But Jihoon’s feet are nothing like he’s expecting.

They’re weirdly perfect.

Now, Seungcheol’s never considered himself to be one of those foot fetishizing weirdo’s, but he might have to start making expectations because Jihoon’s feet are easily the prettiest he’s ever seen—pink soles, cute tiny toe beans, nails shiny and delicate.

“You’ve got the cutest feet, Kitten,” Seungcheol says, letting his fingers drift up and down the instep, skin so smooth he can barely feel it.

Jihoon has the most adorably surprised expression. “I do?”

“Oh yeah—the cutest. Really adorable stuff right here.” Seungcheol pinches one toe gently, which feels like an oddly protective gesture. “Shame you want to amputate it.”

Jihoon curls forward on the floor, stares curiously at his own feet. “I see no other solution.”

“I don’t know about that. We could always try this—” Seungcheol says, curling his fingers round the warmth of Jihoon's bare toes and massaging them gently to rub the ache away.

After a few minutes of gentle massaging, Seungcheol can feel Jihoon flexing his toes gently in response, sniffing slowly subsiding.

“Better?” He asks with a smile.  

Jihoon curls his toes, a small furrow forming between his brows. “Marginally. But I fear I’ll never walk again.”

“Oh geez, you’re so melodramatic.” Seungcheol says, rolling his eyes. He's going to laugh again, he can feel it coming.

It’s a ploy for attention, obviously—a painfully _transparent_ ploy. But that doesn’t stop Seungcheol from marshalling all his charm and consoling his alien gest.

He carries Jihoon to the kitchen—because you know, he’s _incapacitated_. Once there, he ices the ‘injury’ with a bag of frozen peas then slaps on a band-aid, though it really doesn’t require it. He even ‘kisses it better’ for good measure—which Jihoon is inordinately pleased about and demands another kiss immediately. Jihoon’s even more delighted when they return to the scene of the crime and Seungcheol _scolds_ the metal column for hurting him, dimpling magnificently like justice has been served.

* * *

 

By 7pm centralized time, Seungcheol’s got the kitchen smelling warm and delicious.

It's an easy meal, noodles boiling on the stove and pork broth bubbling in the pot beside it, but it still leaves him feeling edgy. Domesticated. He’s been cooking this same dish for years, but for some reason he’s trying extra hard tonight. He’s pulling out all the stops, making the broth from scratch, picking out the best cuts of meat and even has some garnishing’s on hand to spice it all up.

He hears footsteps behind him as he turns the stove off, the soft pad of bare feet as Jihoon steps through the rec room door and into the kitchen.

Seungcheol doesn't have to turn around to acknowledge him, because Jihoon’s already _there_ —trying to peer over his arm and study what he’s doing.

Seungcheol wonders if Aliens understand the searing pain of hot kitchen utensils, and whether they’re going to have to have a conversation that goes like, _‘Saucepan. Fire. Hot. No touching’._

“What are you doing?” Jihoon asks, looking for all the world like he’s a second away from climbing on top of the stove to investigate.

Seungcheol pauses with his hand halfway to reaching the salt. “Cooking?”

Jihoon tilts his head, curious and surprised. “You don’t sound so sure about that?”

Seungcheol grabs the salt, sprinkles some into his palm and tosses it in. “I’m just surprised that you don’t know what it is.” He dips a spoon in to taste the broth. Perfect. “Don’t your species cook?”

Jihoon’s mouth twists at the corner. “No.” There's a long, strange pause before he speaks again. “What are you _cooking_?”

“Ramyun. It’s nice, and it’s nearly ready—so you can judge for yourself if you like.”

The silence is answer enough, and since it would be rude to leave his guest waiting, Seungcheol dishes out a bowl, garnishes it and sets it on the table for Jihoon to eat.

Jihoon takes a seat without having to be urged, but with a grudging reluctance that Seungcheol suspects is for show.

The Ramyun is very good, Seungcheol knows because he’d perfected his recipe in college—but Jihoon stares down at it like it’s a veritable bowl of rabies.

“Try it. It’s good.” Seungcheol urges, taking his own bowl over to the table. He picks up a pair of chopsticks and holds them up high, to demonstrate how to hold them for Jihoon to see, before tucking in himself.

Jihoon picks up his own set of chopsticks carefully, and after a moment of glancing back and forth, adjusts his grip on them to match Seungcheol’s.

He takes his first mouthful of noodles with a noisy slurp and looks weirdly pleased, in a completely not human sort of way. His second mouthful is less successful; he loses his grip of the chopsticks slightly and ends up with noodles hanging down his chin and then stares at Seungcheol at a loss of what to do with them. At Seungcheol’s urging, he slowly slurps them up and begins to chew, making quiet, appreciative noises.

Grinning, Seungcheol reaches over to helpfully re-adjust his grip on the chopsticks—only for Jihoon to slap his hand down on the table loudly.

In a flash, the Alien’s eyes turn dark blue and flinty and he hisses at Seungcheol, actually _hisses_ —like a small kitten protecting his food against thievery.

“Jesus—relax.” Seungcheol huffs, eyebrow quirked. “I was just going to fix your grip on the chopsticks.”

Jihoon looks appropriately shamefaced at that, and doesn’t protest when Seungcheol reaches over a second time.

They eat in companionable silence, Jihoon stopping every now and then to adjust his grip on the chopsticks before diving back in with vigour. He seems to be enjoying it, and completely empties his bowl—even eating the pretty woody, kind of inedible lemongrass stalk Seungcheol forgot to fish out.

When he’s finished, Jihoon sets down his chopsticks, then stares down at the bowl quietly, like he thinks the experience is a _once in a lifetime_ thing and he’s sad it’s over.

“You liked that—didn’t you?” Seungcheol knows he's grinning, he can feel it splitting his cheeks.

“Yes.” Jihoon says, still staring down at his empty bowl. His voice sounds both confused and annoyed, almost too low for Seungcheol to hear.

Seungcheol tosses his napkin down on the table and reaches over to take Jihoon’s bowl. “Would you like _more_?”

“Yes!” Jihoon shoots back immediately, and Seungcheol has to laugh.

* * *

 

After dinner they retire to the recreation room. Seungcheol has a much-needed stiff drink as he stargazes in the seating by the window, while Jihoon pokes around the room like a hyperactive mouse in a lab maze sensing cheese. 

The lighting in the recreation room is always subdued at this hour, as if a timer on the station suddenly realizes that hey, it’s late evening, time to encourage a more relaxed atmosphere, and soon enough Seungcheol can feel his eyelids dropping, his mind drifting.

It’s embarrassing, especially when Jihoon asks him a question and Seungcheol pulls his head up and blinks, pretending he hasn't been fading.

"I'm sorry," Seungcheol says around a jaw cracking yawn. “Guess I’m pretty beat. Think I’ll hit the hay.”

Jihoon frowns confusion, like none of what Seungcheol just said made any sense to him. Which, when Seungcheol thinks about it, probably doesn’t to an Alien.

“What I mean is, I’m going into my room. To _rest_.” Seungcheol clarifies.

“Oh, okay.” Jihoon nods. He takes a seat on one of the low-lying chairs and tucks his feet underneath him. “I’ll wait for you here.”

“What? No.” Seungcheol blurts out.

Jihoon turns his head to look at him, and frowns. It's easy enough to work out that Jihoon doesn't understand _why_ he can’t just sit around and wait for him. Because he was absolutely ready to.

 _Seriously_? Was he just going to wait here for eight hours while Seungcheol slept?

Seungcheol doesn't know whether to laugh, or just feel tragically, unbearably sad for him.

“You don’t have to wait for me. You can do your own thing—rest in your room, explore the ship, poke through my toiletries again if you like. As long as you don’t interfere with the station itself or tamper with its trajectory, you can pretty much do anything you want. Make yourself at home.” He says earnestly.

Jihoon just looks at him for a moment, before he nods.

“Okay then. Uhm— _Goodnight_.” Seungcheol says, ruffling Jihoon’s hair as he slips out of the room.

* * *

 

Seungcheol shuffles easily through his nightly routine, brushing his teeth and donning his sleepwear, dimming the lights before climbing into bed. The glitter of the stars though the viewport still illuminates the room fractionally, but he doesn’t bother lowering the blinds as he gets comfortable under the covers and lets his eyes slip shut. Not a minute later, he snaps them open and rolls his head to the side to find his Alien guest watching him from a foot away.

There's a slim possibility he's about to be murdered—or experimented on.

He'd really hate for this day to end with him being experimented on, probably in some horribly undignified way. Anal probing comes to mind.

He crosses the idea of impending murder and experimentation out a second later, when Jihoon leans ever so slightly towards him. The posture looks strangely _inquisitive_.

“Why are you lying down Human? Are you injured?”

“I’m not _injured_.” Seungcheol huffs, sitting up. “I was trying to get some sleep.”

“Ah, sleep.” Jihoon laughs, sounding for all the world like he thinks sleep is a quaint but unnecessary pastime. “One the greatest human weaknesses. We have evolved past that.”

Seungcheol blinks and shakes his head to clear it. “Wha—how?”

Smiling, Jihoon drops down to sit on the edge of the bed, careless and at ease in Seungcheol's private space. “It’s very simple really. Many cycles ago, one of our greatest minds designed a solution to ensure we never required sleep again. All the benefits of rest were harnessed into this sphere, which we consume once every three cycles—”

“Cycles?” Seungcheol offers, because that seems to be the most interesting word there.

“It’s the equivalent of one of your Earth days.” Jihoon dismisses quickly. He roots around in his pants pocket and pulls out a clear vial, half filled with tiny white spheres shaped capsules. “We call it _Restoril_ , and each dose is synthesized according to the users requirements, allowing us to function at maximum efficiency without wasting valuable time we once required for resting. As a result, we have been able to advance leagues ahead of other life forces in the galaxy.”

Seungcheol takes a minute to let that sink in, and ends up more than a little disappointed when it flatly refuses to. “I can’t believe your species doesn’t sleep. I mean—it’s _sleep_. Everyone sleeps. Sleep’s awesome.”

Jihoon makes a face that says he patently disagrees. “If given a choice, would you choose sleep—or scientific advancement?”

“ _Sleep_.” Seungcheol replies, without missing a beat.

Jihoon frowns, like that was clearly the wrong choice. “This explains a lot about your species. Sleep is such a waste of time, and according to my studies, you spend a third of your lifespan partaking in it when you good be advancing. Think of all the glorious discoveries you could make if you put that time to better use.”

Seungcheol pretends to think about the glorious discoveries, when really all he’s thinking about is glorious sleep.

“What happens if you don’t take it?” He asks, gesturing at the vial of spheres still held in Jihoon’s palm.

“I’m not certain.” Jihoon says, uncertainly. He shakes the vial from side to side, a familiar frown creasing his brow. “It’s not something I have ever considered before, but based on the length of time I have been using them, and the considerable energy it supplies me with—I’d likely slip into a coma.”

Seungcheol’s mouth drops open. “Shit.”

“Indeed.” Jihoon says, mouth quirking oddly, amusement and irritation in one.

“What if there’s a shortage?” Seungcheol probes, curiously.

Jihoon's face goes strangely still and serious. “That would never happen.”

“Oh?” Seungcheol arches an amused eyebrow at him. “You sound very _sure_ of that. As a scientist, surely you should be using practical logical reasoning to consider all eventualities where there may be a failure in the supply chain, regardless of how improbable they may seem. Take your current situation for instance. Say you distress beacon doesn’t work and nobody comes looking for you—say you can’t travel back through the rift you came through—how will you get your hands on any more of those little _pills_?”

Jihoon makes a noise, which seems to indicate he'd never miss something so obvious, then stares down at the vial in his palm before pocketing it again. He pulls a face like he’s learnt something he hadn’t expected today.

“I believe you have made a sound deduction, Human.” He offers at last, slowly and quietly, as if admitting the fact that he caved to sensation is something scandalous.

Seungcheol sighs, “Seriously, just call me Seungcheol.”

Jihoon continues over him easily. “I cannot be certain there won’t be a yet as unforeseen factor that will impact on availability, just as I can’t be sure my people will come for me. Therefore, I must prepare myself accordingly for any such eventuality.”

Seungcheol gives a stiff nod, “Good idea.”

Jihoon rises up from the bed, with purpose. “I will travel backwards through time and design a—”

“Woah, woah, woah!” Seungcheol waves his hands in _hold your horses_ sort of gesture. “How about you just—wean yourself off the stuff? Okay. That’s simpler. Just take one every other cycle, and try sleeping a little instead? If you’re less dependent on them, a shortage won’t affect you so much.”

“Sleep.” Jihoon repeats, considering. “Such a primitive shackle, yet perhaps my only salvation. I’m not sure I can manage it however, I have not attempted sleep since I was a tiny seedling.”

“Seedling?” Seungcheol hears himself repeat. Because in Jihoon's world that probably made perfect sense. “You mean a baby?”

Jihoon makes a disapproving face. “I was not ejected from a womb like a human. I sprouted in a conception chamber—alongside my five million siblings.”

“ _Five million_ —” Seungcheol shakes his head, as if he can force that sentence to make sense. “Okay, this sounds like a conversation for another day. I think for now, we should try and get some sleep.”

Jihoon fidgets with his sweater paws, looks down, his toes curling and uncurling against the hard floor. “I don’t know how. Will you teach me?”

“Dear god in heaven.” Seungcheol says mildly, then lets out a long, exasperated breath through his nose, “Alright fine. It’s not that hard. You just need to find somewhere to lie down, somewhere comfortable.”

Jihoon nods—then drops to the floor. He seems to think the floor is a suitable choice for maximum comfort.

“No, no—not the floor!” Seungcheol huffs.

He can’t believe they’ve failed at the first hurdle. And honestly, it’s not even a hurdle.

Sleep should not _have_ hurdles.

Shoving the bedsheets down, he shifts over in his bunk to make room and pats the space next to him. “Come on—lie down next to me.”

It seems like the most sensible option for Jihoon to just lie next to him, if a little inclined to cause some sort of incident. Some sort of diplomatic, _intergalactic_ incident.

Inviting an Alien into your bed within 24 hours of meeting them is not exactly a fantastic start to human/alien relations. Or possibly the best start—only if Seungcheol was Captain James Kirk and his life was Star Trek and his mission was to romance every alien species in existence.

The bed’s certainly big enough for two people, but _Jihoon_ in his bed is all limbs and restlessness and he takes up far too much space for such a tiny person. Enough space that it's physically impossible to get away from him. Though Jihoon seems to be under the impression that getting away from the person you're sharing a bed with is _not_ the point.

“This is my side of the bed.” Seungcheol points out, at where Jihoon’s hand has migrated across the centre of the bed to explore _his_ pillow.

He can already tell they're going to have irreconcilable differences.

“I must familiarise myself with every inch of your bed to ensure I sleep in optimum conditions.” Jihoon explains, fondling his pillow. “Now, surrender your pillow—I wish to examine it.”

Seungcheol pulls back an inch so he can get a good look at Jihoon’s face. “What? Why?”

Jihoon’s fingers curl around the edge of his pillow, tugging lightly. “I must assess it. I suspect it’s structural integrity is more sound than my current pillow. I may wish to swap.”

“Fuck _that_.” Seungcheol huffs, shoving his pillow more resolutely under his head. “This is my favourite pillow.”

“I insist you submit the superior pillow.” Jihoon says firmly. There's a glare too.

Seungcheol scowls. “Uh—how about _no_.”

Jihoon makes a face at him, pissed off and annoyed because something's not going how he wants it to. Then—he leans over and plants his head on Seungcheol’s pillow—millimetres from Seungcheol’s face.

_Un-fucking-believable._

Jihoon is incredibly spoiled, Seungcheol thinks — why did he never see that before? Jihoon is a  _spoiled brat_.

Seungcheol snarls, then manhandles Jihoon, who seems just confused enough to let himself be manhandled for once, over to his side of the bed and away from his pillow.

“Cease this discourteous behaviour at once!” Jihoon protests.

“Stop talking you’re fucking Shakespeare!” Seungcheol snaps, pinning Jihoon in place with one arm so he can drag the covers over them both. He immediately rolls on his side, facing away from Jihoon and shuts his eyes, keeping a fist curled tightly around his pillow—just in case Jihoon gets any smart _ideas_.

It's quiet for a long minute, and then the room is lit by the muted but familiar glow of Jihoon’s tricorder.

“I am attempting the primitive act of sleep to coincide with the Human’s rest period.” Jihoon talks into the recorder, like he's already rated the pillow thievery a failed experiment and moved on to something else. “I doubt I will be successful tonight, but my findings will be invaluable in the event of—"

Seungcheol reaches over, without bothering to turn around, and snatches the tricorder out of Jihoon's hand, shoves it under his pillow. Completely ignoring the irritated little huff Jihoon gives once he's denied anything to do.

"No recordings when we’re trying to sleep. It's one of my rules." Seungcheol says stiffly.

“ _Rules_?” Jihoon echoes, voice ripe with indignation.

“Yeah— _rules_.” Seungcheol says, his jaw clenched.” Laws, guidelines, instructions. Directions you must adhere to if you are to live on this station with me.”

“You never mentioned anything about this before.” Jihoon grumbles.

Seungcheol snorts. “Yeah, well—some shit goes without saying. But seeing as you’re new to the concept of co-habitation, I guess I’ll have to lay down the law.”

“Well I have some rules of my own I would like to declare.” Jihoon says.

Seungcheol blows out a frustrated breath. “You don’t _get_ to make rules.”

"Why do you get to make rules and I don't?" Jihoon complains at his back.

"My space-station—my rules.” Seungcheol tells him, and he tries for that tone that says he's right and it's not up for discussion.

Jihoon gives a huff of frustrated annoyance, like Seungcheol is being ridiculous. "Enforced clothing and no recordings during sleep—so antediluvian. Are you going to share the _rest_ of your rules with me?"

"No," Seungcheol grunts into his pillow.

"How do you expect me to abide by the rules if you don't tell me what they are?" Jihoon asks, he sounds almost amused in the darkness, which is unfair.

Seungcheol growls. He’s far more awake than he'd like to be right now and it's very hard not to smack Jihoon in the face with a pillow.

"Fine, there's now only one rule— _go to sleep."_

Jihoon scoffs. "I haven’t slept in 22995 cycles and you accept me to sleep on command? That’s hardly fair."

Seungcheol tries to do the maths of that in his head and gives up half way through. "Then pretend to sleep until you work out how."

Jihoon grumbles something unflattering under his breath, then goes quiet.

It's quiet for a long moment, quiet enough that Seungcheol thinks maybe he’ll finally fall asleep, but then—the fidgeting starts.

It’s an endless series of tiny shifting, twitching movements and unhappy breath noises that Seungcheol thinks he might just maybe kill Jihoon over, because he's really, really tired. He needs sleep like he needs to breathe at the minute. Needs to shut down, reboot and start again tomorrow. But he can't. Because of Jihoon.

Seungcheol’s a breath away from just rolling over and suffocating him into unconsciousness when a block of ice slips between his calves and jerks him to full alertness.

“Jesus Christ, what the—are those your _feet_?” He asks as the blocks of ice wiggle against his skin.

Then suddenly, he has no idea what to do with his arms as Jihoon squirms in and attaches himself to him from behind like some sort of lamprey eel.

“Yes.” Jihoon murmurs, sticking his cold face against Seungcheol’s shoulders and wrapping his skinny icicle arms around Seungcheol’s chest. “Your large body emits a considerable amount of heat. It’s very pleasant and I would like to share it.”

“ _What_?” Seungcheol voice doesn't crack, though it does waver a little.

“You’re the one who insisted I remove my temperature regulating attire,” Jihoon snipes defensively, his face squashed against Seungcheol’s back. Even his breath feels cool on Seungcheol’s skin, “It’s only fair that you should share your immense body heat.”

In other circumstances, Seungcheol would welcome a lithe, beautiful man into his bed, snuggling up to him. Today he just finds him inconvenient.

“Listen—pal. There’s a serious danger of lines being crossed here. I’m beginning to think your species doesn’t have concepts of personal space, but humans _do_ , and you can’t go around trampling all over them. You can’t just _spoon_ me when you feel like it. We’ve known each other for less than 24 hours." He snaps harshly, because anyone else in the world would know that without having to be told.

Anyone in the world would understand that. Or would at least understand the mind-boggling _inappropriateness_ of it.

One of Jihoon’s hands slips under his shirt to skate across his stomach, like he hasn’t been listening and he’s perfectly willing to drain heat from wherever he decides is best. “Heat sources aren't required to talk.”

It’s on the tip of Seungcheol’s tongue to protest noisily about that—but he can’t ignore the way Jihoon’s body feels pressed against his back. The little shithead _is_ cold, uncomfortably, worryingly cold like some sort of tiny Alien popsicle. His arms are freezing, and there's a fine tremor running through his skin that Seungcheol can feel now, fits and starts that are barely visible.

Clearly being an advanced race doesn't equip Jihoon to survive anywhere in the Galaxy. Seungcheol’s going to be layering him in scarves and mittens and woollen under-things for the foreseeable future.

Much as he's still not entirely sure about the idea, Seungcheol really has very little choice but to share his body heat after all.

It would be rude _not_ to.

He shifts forward slightly, pushing Jihoon's arms up and out of the way, ignoring the unhappy mew Jihoon makes. It only takes a moment for Seungcheol to turn himself so he's facing Jihoon, and before Jihoon can roll away, Seungcheol has gathered him close against the length of his body, tucking arms and hands in between their chests.

Jihoon makes a pleased little sound and burrows closer. The icy feet find their way between Seungcheol’s calves again, Jihoon's cold nose tucked in close to Seungcheol's neck.

It occurs to Seungcheol, oddly slowly, and with a dreamlike sort of horror, that he's spooning with an alien.

He's spooning an alien.

 _He's_   _spooning an alien_.

His brain hangs on to that sentence, replays it over and over. Maybe it thinks it can lessen the shock through repetition. But it just rattles around in his skull like there isn't a single other thought in there.

For a long stretch neither of them talks at all. There's just one steady flare of breath after another, Jihoon’s exhales warming Seungcheol's skin and then leaving it to cool, while the vague, nagging arousal he'd done a pretty good job of stamping into submission earlier proves itself more resilient than he'd thought.

Living on a space station is a never-ending spiral of deprivation, and worst of all is the hunger for skin, for a warm body, for just a little something to remind you that you used to be a human being.

Seungcheol can feel his own heart racing in his chest, can feel his dick getting firm with interest and _knows_ Jihoon has to be able to feel it too, but he doesn't say anything.

Eventually, Seungcheol realizes the even breathing means Jihoon's _….fallen asleep._

He resists the urge to burst out laughing because he can’t believe this actually worked.

Jihoon is _asleep_ —not pretending, not listening to the pace of his heartbeat, or contemplating their relative temperatures or trying to steal his pillow—he's actually  _genuinely_ sleeping. Seungcheol can feel the way his back shifts minutely on every breath.

After five minutes turn to twenty, it occurs to Seungcheol that his Alien guest is now perfectly warmed up and there's really no reason for them to still be spooning. He considers extricating himself carefully, but before he can move, he’s suddenly aware of an iridescent light coming from the small Alien nestled in his arms.

It starts as a soft shimmer in Jihoon’s hair, but as Seungcheol watches, it builds into a bioluminescent glow that seems to radiate from every pore.

It’s breath-taking.

It’s the most fucking beautiful thing Seungcheol's ever seen, beautiful enough that he'd admit it and not even care.

He thinks this—this _here_ is how he'd always expected an Alien to look; immutable and unfathomable and radiant, like they'd swallow a goddamn star.

Carefully, he threads his fingers through Jihoon’s hair, watching the brightness leak between his fingers, feels the faintest vibration where each strand flows like it's _alive_.

Jihoon moves in his arms, just a little—murmuring quietly in his sleep. Seungcheol knows he should move away, stop touching. He can see exactly what he's supposed to do; he should unwind his arm as carefully as he can, pull his leg out from between Jihoon's and turn over. Shift into the cold space on the other side of the bed. But he can’t; their proximity is comforting in a way he can't quite explain.

Even though Jihoon’s shining like a fucking night-light, Seungcheol now knows he isn’t a figment of his imagination.

Here in his arms, Jihoon’s alive and warm and very real.

* * *

 

Seungcheol wakes up again a few hours later to Jihoon patting him on the shoulder and talking faster than anyone has a right to be able to at 5am in the morning. He should have known Jihoon's brain could only be rendered unconscious for so long.

Seungcheol makes some sort of gurgling incoherent noise in his throat because a) he's not even close to awake, and b) Jihoon’s straddling his chest and holding what appears to be a syringe.

It’s empty, which Seungcheol’s not sure is a good or bad thing right at this moment. He doesn't think Jihoon has injected him with anything, because he's fairly sure he would have felt that, even asleep. Though the syringe like device doesn’t look like anything he had onboard the station, so maybe it’s an Alien device Seungcheol’s not _meant_ to feel?

Regardless, Jihoon doesn’t look menacing (except for the straddling and the syringe), just curious.

“What are you doing with that?” Seungcheol doesn't even bother to lift his head, he lets his voice mumble out at almost speaking volume, frustration and objection half muffled in the pillow.

He's not awake enough to be properly irritated. Also, there's a long length of bare thigh pressed up against his own and it's distracting as fuck.

"I haven't been doing anything untoward with it, I promise," Jihoon says, face all practiced innocence. “I’ve just been waiting for you to wake up, so I can obtain a sample of your blood with your consent.”

“No.” Seungcheol grunts out quickly, then quietly reconsiders. “Why?”

Jihoon’s hands slide down and cover Seungcheol's where they're resting on the bed. “I want to clone you.”

For a long second Seungcheol can't speak.

“No.” He snaps. Again, he reassesses, “Why?”

Jihoon frowns like it pains him to have to explain. “Humans have an unnerving ability to put themselves in danger. If I have a copy of you, I won’t have to worry about you _accidentally_ ejecting yourself into space.”

Seungcheol blinks at that. Because understanding it apparently helps not at all. “I _won’t_ eject myself into space.”

Jihoon's eyes are a peculiar shade of pale blue in the dark. Far too intent for this early in the morning.

“How can you be sure?” He offers, more slowly.

Seungcheol contemplates his answer carefully, as carefully as he can while half asleep. “I can’t. But you’re not allowed to clone me. Guess you’ll just have to make sure nothing happens to me instead.”

Jihoon seems to consider this. “Am I expected to follow you around and watch your every movement?”

“You seem to have been doing that anyway.” Seungcheol says, waving a hand lazily.

“May I at least fit you with a biosensor?” Jihoon asks, looking torn between responsibility and desperation. “It will alert me to fluctuations in your emotive and sensory state, allowing me to assess potential threats you face.”

Seungcheol runs his tongue over his teeth, anticipatory. “If I do—will you let me go back to sleep?”

Jihoon purses his lips, then nods. “Yes.”

“Fine. Have at it.”

No sooner has Seungcheol agreed, that he feels a sharp pain on the side of his neck.

“Ah! Fuck!” He hisses. Teeth clenched, he growls up at Jihoon. “That hurt.”

“I’m sure you’ll soldier though it.” Jihoon says, patting Seungcheol on the head with what Seungcheol considers is a little _too_ much satisfaction.

Seungcheol sits up in bed, patting around new sensitive spot on his neck. He can’t feel anything protruding from the surface of his skin, but when he glances sideways in the mirror he can see a thin, blue holographic line circling his neck. His fingers pass through it unimpeded, but as he tilts his head this way and that in the mirror—the hologram remains fixed around his neck. Like a collar.

“Did—did you just fit me with a collar? Like a _dog_?” He huffs.

Jihoon eyes run over Seungcheol's form, down and then up, to a smirk with quite an obvious intent. “I fear it would require a lot more than a collar to domesticate you as well as a dog.”

There’s something challenging in that statement, one Seungcheol feels duty bound to respond to.

He flops back onto the bed instead, ignoring the teasing glint in Jihoon’s stare. 

“Did you at least get some decent sleep?”

“Yes.” Jihoon smiles primly. He shifts back to sit more comfortably on Seungcheol’s waist, though why he just doesn’t climb off is something of a mystery. “The first phase of the weaning process was a success. I slept for 47 minutes.”

Seungcheol eyeballs him. “Just 47 minutes?”

_Fuck! What’s he been doing for the rest of the time?_

Jihoon’s nose scrunches up adorably, “That’s a great achievement Seungcheol. Considering I haven’t slept in so long, 47 minutes is remarkable. The conditions where optimal and I hope to replicate them again today, with _one_ exception.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes at him. “What exception?”

Jihoon smiles like the answer is obvious, then finally moves to climb off his chest.  

Seungcheol watches his movements with suspicious eyes, then registers an unfamiliar lumpiness under his head.

“Hey—wait.” He lifts his head. “Where’s my favourite pillow?”

Jihoon scampers out of the room before he can answer him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I'm updating this a lot later than I expected too. But I am still very much invested in this fic. Just had a ton of other fics to update first.  
> 2) Jihoon being captivated by simple objects is the main reason I even started writing this fic. If you ever read the tweitter AU Janna's pic started, it pretty much ends up with Jihoon fawning over simplistic objects and Seungcheol growing increasingly baffled by it all. Also, they have Christmas together which is already half written because I jump forward and write the parts I'm excited about the most XD  
> 3) Also, Jihoon glowing like a tiny nightlight in his sleep was just something I couldn't get out of my head once I put it there.  
> 4) Hope you enjoyed the update! Feedback is always appreciated!


	3. Lost in translation

**DAY: 779**

Living with Jihoon is both everything and nothing like Seungcheol expects.

"Living with" in the loosest sense of the word, of course. It’s not like Jihoon’s in a position to pay rent, help out with the cooking or do his share of the laundry, after all. So it’s nothing like having a regular, contributive member of the household or anything.

Perhaps the best way to put it is "temporarily sharing a living space with an individual in exchange for unwanted observations that sound like insults,” because that’s essentially the basis of their relationship.

Seungcheol thinks if he were back on Earth and _actually_ had options, Jihoon wouldn’t have lasted a single _day_ as his housemate, let alone the current week and counting. But right now—on day 779 of his mission, there’s no denying that Jihoon is a pleasant distraction to the monotony of Seungcheol’s life on the station.

Jihoon has to  _know_  things. He has to unpick the world until he can see how it works, why it works. During the active hours on-board the station, he whisks around like a supernova of energy, equal parts genius and madness. He asks questions and examines things, runs experiments on everything from the stations life support systems to the contents of Seungcheol’s bathroom cabinet.

And Seungcheol can't help but be swept up in it, in the excitement of discovery, in the weird questions, in  _Jihoon._  

The Alien's a contradiction of brilliance and arrogance and enthusiasm. Even if he is infuriating and shockingly rude and quite possibly genuinely unhinged. It's impossible not to get dragged along for the ride.

Thankfully, Jihoon slips into a more sedate mood during the recreational hours.

He allows himself to relax in an effort to match Seungcheol’s mood as they unwind. Well, as sedate as he can manage. The same qualities that make him such a good scientist, his endless foresight and calculation, make him terrible at sitting still. But he does try and keep the invasive questioning to a minimum at least, and the emoti-sensor he's fitted around Seungcheol's neck is serving as a good indicator for when he should shut the fuck up. (Blue = Relaxed. Green = Not so much)

And when it comes time to sleep…. _well_.

Once is a necessity.

Twice is coincidence.

Three times is a habit.

Seungcheol's not sure what to think about the fact that spooning with Jihoon has become a habit.

Or the fact that he's _let_ it become a habit.

Because there are certain, obvious and instinctive reactions to having someone warm and beautiful sprawled haplessly over you. Reactions that he doesn't particularly want to draw attention to at the moment. 

Despite their unconventional sleeping arrangement, Seungcheol has managed to maintain a professional and co-habituative distance between them. More or less.

It’s proving to be increasing difficult though—especially when he’s living with an Alien that has no reservations about skipping onto the flight deck, pushing Seungcheol’s chair back and climbing right into his lap.

Seungcheol gives a squawk of surprise as Jihoon lands astride his thighs and stares down into his face.

“Jihoon. What the—” He begins, unable to mask his incredulity. Hell, incredulity isn't quite the word. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I am _cold_.” Jihoon announces, in a way that suggests this is somehow Seungcheol’s fault.

Seungcheol tries to look put upon, while Jihoon inflicts every cold inch of himself on Seungcheol. Until he ends up squashed against the back of the chair, with Jihoon draped over him like a cold, and not particularly comfortable, blanket.

Seungcheol turns his head to protest the wilful mistreatment, and almost gets a mouth full of Jihoon’s hair.

“Where’s that jumper I gave you to keep you warm?” He complains quietly, breath blowing at the half-curls tickling his nose.

“Eugh. No. It was too _itchy_.” Jihoon dismisses, sliding his hands under Seungcheol’s shirt—and fuck—he really _is_ freezing. “I do not like the way the fabric chafes against my skin. I much prefer to warm myself up in the conventional way.”

“This isn’t conventional. This is _anything_ but conventional.” Seungcheol protests as Jihoon burrows closer. And _now_ his train of thought has been derailed and he's sure he should, in some way be complaining about the way _Jihoon’s_ nuzzling into the bend of his neck, like that's something they can just do, without there being consequences, and awkwardness - and some confusing levels of arousal that probably shouldn't be there.

“Jihoon—” Seungcheol flusters, “I don’t think—"

“Heat sources are not required to talk.” Jihoon interjects huffily.

Seungcheol grumbles something about not being furniture under his breath, then a little louder, “On my home planet, sitting on someone’s lap without permission is a breach of personal space.”

“On my home planet, it _isn’t_.” Jihoon says simply.

Seungcheol’s tempted to put his foot down here, and throw him off.

And he really should start putting his foot down more, but Jihoon sitting on his lap isn’t exactly interfering with his work at the moment. He’s just running a few scans, staring out into the blackness of space and in all honestly, he could use the company. If that company chooses to get comfortable on his lap, well….

Seungcheol can't help winding his arms around Jihoon's waist to grip the back of thighs, because he needs _somewhere_ to rest his hands. He does it with a semi-conscious alert flaring up at the back of his mind, a little message he tries not to pay attention to. It's saying something about the way Jihoon fits perfectly on his lap, like it was meant for him. The way they’re now eye to eye, perfectly matched in height seated like this. The little electric heat that thought creates travels to his groin.

Jihoon's the only real human being in this place, he tells himself. There's no one else around. Small wonder there's an instinct to touch him. Small wonder it feels good.

“What are you doing up here anyway?” Jihoon says, out of nowhere.

“Running scans.”

“What are you scanning for?”

Seungcheol rubs a hand over his face, “It’s classified.”

Jihoon lifts his chin and gives him a sour look, “I am perfectly capable of discretion.”

“It’s classified from _me_ —I mean.” Seungcheol counters. “I don’t know what the computer is searching for. I just initiate the scans and submit the recordings.”

Jihoon looks nonplussed, then a bit irritated.

“Can’t your people initiate the scans _remotely_?” He asks, which is a fair question.

Seungcheol shrugs, “Apparently not.”

“That sounds awfully tedious and a colossal waste of your time.” Jihoon says, like the observation might have passed Seungcheol by.

“Tell me about it.” Seungcheol sighs, then gives a bitter little half-laugh and rubs his face. “Not gonna lie, things were pretty boring around here till you showed up.”

Jihoon looks weirdly pleased about that. “I imagine so. It’s impressive that your brain has not disintegrated into mush from performing such menial tasks for so long.”

Seungcheol turns away to stare out the viewport, wrestling briefly with his response. “For a while I thought it was. I thought I was _losing_ it. There’s not much to anchor you to reality out here, so you need to find ways to stay focused.”

Jihoon hums thoughtfully. “And how did you manage that?”

“Reading, cooking, exercising. The Psych-ops analysts suggested I take up a hobby or two, to keep my mind sharp, so I took up sketching for the first few months. I enjoyed it, but then I injured my hand on the air lock door and had to rest it. By the time it healed, I’d lost interest. Now when I’m bored I just fire up a movie on my data pad.”

Jihoon frowns at him in confusion.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes at his ability to react to the simplest statement like it's a social minefield he has no idea how to traverse.

“What part of that sentence did you _not_ understand?”

“ _Moovviiee_.” Jihoon says. He draws the word out, like he suddenly finds it fascinating.

Seungcheol reaches for the data-pad perched on the flight console, and with Jihoon still nestled in his lap, swipes it on.

It takes a few minutes for the app to load—which is impressive considering the sheer distance the signal’s travelling from—and then the iconic red lettering on black appears on his screen.

“Welcome to the world of Netflix.”  

“ _Netflix_.” Jihoon echoes in awe.

Seungcheol watches him thumbing the bright letters on screen and barely contains a chuckle.

“Yeah, it’s uhm a subscription service, for watching tv shows and movies.” He explains, navigating to the ‘Recommendations for you’ page. “Anything take your fancy?”

Jihoon scans the titles on offer with his eyes and fingers before tentatively tapping on the screen. He recoils in shock when the opening title of _SpongeBob Squarepants_ begins to play on screen.

_[Are ya ready kids?]_

_[[Aye-aye captain]]_

_[I can’t hear you]_

_[[AYE-AYE CAPTAIN]]_

_[Oooohhhhhhhh]_

“I know what you’re thinking—” Seungcheol says, when Jihoon keeps shooting him little side-ways looks that seem to say, _this—this is what human’s find entertaining?,_ “But Spongebob is awesome. He’s very popular on Earth. Give him a chance.”

Jihoon _does_ give Spongebob a chance.

There’s a disturbed frown on his face for the first two episodes, then a perplexed expression of what might be amusement for the third. But by the fifth episode he’s singing along to the opening credits.

“SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS! SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS! SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS! SPONGEBOB SQUAREPAAAAAAAANTS!”

“I’m happy you’re enjoying—" Seungcheol stops because Jihoon’s already making, 'Shh it’s starting,' gestures with his hands. 

Seungcheol clamps his mouth shut and smirks.

The results of his scans came in almost 20 minutes ago.

It’s probably safe to move now that Jihoon’s suitably enraptured by Spongebob Squarepants and his underwater adventures, but he decides to stay put for one more episode anyway.

* * *

 

**DAY: 780**

****

When Seungcheol wakes up one morning—or what his command module deems to be morning—he finds the toaster is missing.

He's given up trying to work out exactly how and when these things happen. Either the toaster will show up tomorrow heavily modified, or it won't. All he knows is—if this day ends with a great, big hole in the hull because of a laser shooting toaster he thinks he'll probably have to put his foot down.

He certainly can't—won't—flat-out  _refuses_  to go through that twice in one week.

Jihoon is noticeably absent from the kitchen, although the bread, milk and cheese sitting out on the counter all indicate he’s _somewhere_ nearby.

Recently Jihoon has taken it upon himself to research human eating habits, and will occasionally make wild stabs at important life skills like cooking. Or his attempt at cooking anyway. There’s a fair amount of burning going on, and equal amounts of charring. In fact—there’s very little actual food prep happening and a lot of food _waste_.

Seungcheol had suggested Jihoon dial it back and attempt something less complicated at first—even demonstrated for him how to make a hot chocolate and prepare a sandwich.

Jihoon had enjoyed both, then declared phase 1 of the experiment a success. Now they’re onto Phase 2—which seems to consist of setting out milk, bread and cheese on the counter and expecting them to magically transform into a hot chocolate and a cheese sandwich.

There's a danger that Seungcheol contributes to this transformation far more than he probably should. Since that just continues the cycle of atrociously spoilt behaviour.

Jihoon gets away with enough atrociously spoilt behaviour as it is and Seungcheol really can’t have him thinking bread actually _evolves_ into sandwiches if you leave it in on the side long enough.

He leaves the items out where he finds them and has a stale croissant instead of toast, and coffee strong enough to make his teeth feel like they're vibrating. Which he doesn't mind so much right this minute, because he has to spend the morning going over routine ship performance logs.

2356 performance log checks later and Seungcheol hears Jihoon call someone an idiot from somewhere down the corridor. Seungcheol's not entirely sure who, but there's an outside chance that it's _him_.

He's curious enough to leave his performance logs and head back to the kitchen area.

Jihoon's standing by the counter, staring down at the bread and cheese and milk with obvious disappointment. When he sees Seungcheol approach, he gestures at them. “Where is my hot chocolate and my cheese sandwiches?”

“Make your own damn hot chocolate and sandwiches for a change. You’ve lived here long enough, and god knows you’ve watched me do it enough times.”

Jihoon’s face crumples, like Seungcheol’s slapped him in the face.

He pulls out the tricorder from his pocket, and quietly mumbles, “Phase 2 of experiment has failed. Study into the enjoyment of human food has ended, unexpectedly, due to failure in human participation.” Before slinking quietly out of the kitchen.

Seungcheol roll his eyes.

He has to wonder how much of his drama is carefully orchestrated and how much is natural, but the gooey, guilty feeling in his stomach has him calling out to Jihoon’s retreating back.

“Oh, for fucks sake! Come back here. I’ll make you your damn sandwich.” He says, and then feels annoyed with himself, as if he's somehow played into Jihoon's hands.

He can hear Jihoon in the corridor, recording, “Experiment reinitiated. Human participation renewed,” into his tricorder, before skipping back into the kitchen again.

“Spoiled little shit.” Seungcheol murmurs, and he doesn't particularly care whether Jihoon hears that or not.

Pulling out a chopping board and a knife, Seungcheol gets to work slicing cheese for Jihoon’s sandwich.

He’s cut a fair few slices off the block, more than enough for a sandwich—when Jihoon suddenly says, “More cheese,” in that flat, obnoxiously demanding way that's gotten him far too many things. In a way that Seungcheol really shouldn't be pandering to.

Seungcheol cuts him sharp sideways look.

“ _Please_?” Jihoon adds, dimpling sweetly.

Seungcheol shakes his head and goes back to slicing more cheese.

“Thinking of deviating from your basic cheese sandwich?” He asks as he butters the bread. “I could dice some tomatoes on this bad boy—maybe some dehydrated bacon bits. Pickle?”

Jihoon wrinkles his nose. “No. Just cheese.”

Seungcheol shrugs, then sets the mug of milk in the microwave to heat. “Suit yourself. If you hadn’t taken the toaster I could have introduced you to the wonders of a toasted cheese sandwich. Which reminds me, where _is_ the toaster by the way?”

"In the med-bay," Jihoon says straight away, "Though it doesn't work anymore."

Seungcheol stops assembling his sandwich to stare at him.

Jihoon’s slumped on a stool on the other side of the long kitchen island, his elbow propped on the cutting counter, his cheek propped on his hand. He looks meditative, almost dreamy….and there’s a rubber duck in his hand. Which seems like a bewildering random detail.

Seungcheol doesn't know where Jihoon got a rubber duck from, only that it materialized somewhere in the past ten minutes. He’s assuming it will be part of some future experiment.

"Why doesn't the toaster work anymore? I’m pretty sure it was working yesterday morning."

Jihoon stops studying the rubber duck and swivels all the way round. "I may have cannibalised it, slightly, to make a scale model of a gamma ray detector."

"Could you cannibalise it back?" Seungcheol asks, because that seems like a sensible question.

"That _depends_ ," Jihoon says slowly.

Seungcheol pulls the mug out of the microwave when it beeps and places it on the counter before it can burn his fingers. "On what?"

"Only if you actually wanted it to toast anything."

Seungcheol nods. "That would be one of the main uses I'd be hoping to put it towards, yes."

"Then no." Jihoon doesn't sound particularly sorry about it.

Seungcheol should have seen that coming really.

He finishes preparing Jihoon his hot chocolate—extra chocolatey, whipped cream, _‘no—I can’t physically add anymore mini marshmallows’_ and sets it in front of him. Then watches Jihoon’s ritual of picking off each marshmallow and eating it.

Honestly, what was the _point_ of adding them if Jihoon was just going to pick them off before his first sip?

Seungcheol balls up a damp dish rag and tosses it in the sink. "Is this a habit of yours? This deconstructing household appliances for the furtherment of science. Cause I can’t help noticing a theme here—what with the miniature wind tunnel you tried to build out of the vacuum cleaner and that shit you pulled with the microwave last week."

Jihoon lifts the cup and takes a careful sip. When he puts it down he’s smiling. "You have to take advantage of every tool available to you, Seungcheol."

Seungcheol watches Jihoon nibble delicately on his sandwich and thinks about that for a minute.

"I'm a tool in this scenario aren't I?" he says.

Jihoon tips his head back and forth, like he already knows the answer to that but he's trying to frame it in some way that won't get him into trouble.

Seungcheol already knows the answer's going to be yes.

* * *

 

**DAY: 782**

Seungcheol lets out a sigh as he turns the knob and the jet of water pulses down on him, plastering his hair against his forehead.

The shower's just a fraction away from too hot, a skid of water that leaves the skin of his back stinging as he squirts out some shampoo and lathers up his hair. But it's only unpleasant for a minute, then it's just the right temperature, washing away all the grease, the sweat, and soothing the ache between his shoulder blades from where lay on the hard floor too long during a repair job.

He rinses the suds from his hair, then leans his forehead on the wall, just lets the water pour down over him. It's bliss for long seconds, until….

“The human male washes daily—”

Seungcheol makes a squeaky noise of surprise and jerks his head out of the spray.

Jihoon continues, “Even if his body is sufficiently clean, which would suggest—”

“What the fuck!” Seungcheol interjects with a splutter, blinking water and soap suds from his eyes.

Jihoon’s standing just behind the glass partition, a tricorder in one hand and some kind of holographic lens covering his left eye as he speaks, “The ritual of the shower is not only for hygiene purposes, but a source of comfort too.”

Seungcheol gawks at him in shock. He wouldn’t be surprised if that lens turned out to be some advanced camera, _filming_ him shower. Jihoon’s species don’t seem to have any personal space issues at all. Or maybe it's just that Jihoon flagrantly ignores everyone else's personal space issues.

Seungcheol can't decide how much of that's his fault. He still hasn't exactly put his foot down—on much of anything.

This would probably be a good place to start.

“You can’t just walk in here while I’m showering. And you definitely can’t record me.” He snaps, fighting the flush that threatens to overtake his face as he steps outside the shower to grab his towel and cover himself.

“I informed you I would be observing you when you least expect it.” Jihoon bites back, looking irritated at having his observation cut short.

As the subject of said research Seungcheol thinks he deserves to be a little annoyed about that.

He thinks about turning around and letting Jihoon deduce things from the tense line of his back, but that really wouldn't help anything. Jihoon doesn't seem to understand subtle forms of communication like body language and sarcasm. Or he does, and he just doesn’t give a flying fuck.

“When I agreed—I didn’t know you’d be watching me shower.” Seungcheol counters, shutting the water off.

“How else am I to study your human form, or your hygiene practices if you are not showering and naked?” Jihoon says.

Seungcheol holds on tightly to that flare of irritation, “I don’t care. Get out!”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, like Seungcheol's being unnecessarily stubborn, but accepts his request and turns to leave. Not before recording a parting message on his tricorder:

“Side note. The human male sexual organ is significantly _larger_ than I anticipated. It seems intelligence is _not_ a determining factor in human virility.”

Seungcheol thinks there's a compliment in there somewhere, that he should be flattered. But there's no more space in his brain for other emotions right now—perhaps later.

* * *

 

**DAY: 783**

****

Seungcheol’s carefully not mentioning Jihoon’s presence on-board the station in his reports, because, _fuck_ —what do you say?

_Pilot’s log: In the spirit of exploration and perhaps a fit of insanity, I have allowed an Alien species to board the station. He’s called Jihoon, and he’s very small and sleeps in my bed._

Yeah. _No_ —that’s bound to raise a few alarm bells back at Central.

Seungcheol’s life used to be far less interesting, and easier to summarise.

The blinking cursor has started to look highly suspect.

He stares at it for a while and tries to think of something reassuringly mundane to say. Something that none of the handful of people who actually examine this will be able to read anything into.

Maybe something about the weather?

Oh, yeah. That’s right—he’s in _space_.

"Human." Jihoon's voice cuts into Seungcheol's tangled thoughts.

Seungcheol blinks and raises his eyes from the half-finished report displayed on the screen in his hands. He finds Jihoon standing in the doorway, staring at him with a perplexed furrow bisecting his brow.

“What is it _now_ Jihoon?” Seungcheol asks impatiently.

“Are you going to explain yourself?” Jihoon says, crossing the threshold.

Seungcheol rests his data-pad on the table and gives him a confounded look. When Jihoon doesn't immediately clarify, an arched eyebrow follows. “Explain what Jihoon?”

“The meaning of this.” Jihoon says, long fingers lifting something that Seungcheol’s too far away to identify properly.

Seungcheol squints at it, “What is that? I can’t see.”

Jihoon hold up something between his thumb and forefinger, still too far away to distinguish clearly. “I almost didn’t notice it myself, what with such a cleverly compacted design. But I suppose that’s the intention after all— _discretion_. Hmm?”

Which makes  _Seungcheol_  blink in confusion, because…“Uh—I don’t know what you mean.”

Jihoon gives him a look from beneath his eyebrows, surprised, amused, some strange third option that Seungcheol doesn't know him well enough to puzzle out.

“You are being deliberately obtuse Seungcheol. Are you really going to pretend like you haven’t planted this device in my room to record me, without alerting me to it first? I am disappointed you would resort to such measures. I will happily answer any questions you have, you do not need to _spy_ on me.”

Now Seungcheol’s completely lost.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He says, shoving back his seat to round his desk and get a better look.

It takes him several seconds longer than it should to realize that the device Jihoon is referring—the one he’s now holding out in the palm of his hand—is a fucking paperclip.

Unbelievable. Honestly, you couldn’t make this shit up.

“That’s a fucking paperclip Jihoon.” Seungcheol snaps.

Jihoon’s brow furrows. His eyes are a little blank, not quite tracking. “An advanced piece of human technology.”

“Oh my god, no—it’s not!” Seungcheol groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s a paperclip. Desk stationary for organizing paper. I use it to bunch pieces of paper together. And sometimes, when I’m really bored—I make paperclip chains out of a whole pile of them.”

Jihoon looks up at him, his forehead creased. “I—do not understand.”

“Look,” Seungcheol begins, returning to his desk with a sigh. Grabbing a paperclip out of the stationary tray on the desk, he shuffles together some hastily discarded notes and safeties them with the paperclip in one corner. “There— _paper-clip_.”

Comprehension smoothes Jihoon’s expression

"Oh," He says after a moment, like he's discovered something unusual, somewhere he didn't expect it. “That is fascinating. It _clips_ the paper— _together_.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, “I know, right.”

Jihoon’s now looking at him with an expression of amazement, mixed with excitement.  “This is a truly fascinating find. I never expected your species to be so organized and resourceful. May I keep this paper-clip for my research?”

“Sure.” Seungcheol says, throwing his hands in the air. Because when Jihoon sounds impressed you just go with it. He can work out the details later. “In fact—you can have a whole pile.”

Moving behind his desk, he picks up the paperclip chain he’d been working on, out of sheer boredom, and clips the ends together to seal it before lowering it gently over Jihoon’s head. “When you link them together like this, you can carry them around your neck.”

The silence from Jihoon is...warmer, pleased, like maybe he thinks Seungcheol has gifted him with something unique and extraordinary.  He fingers the necklace, a small blush colouring the bridge of his nose.

“Thank you Human. I will treasure this forever.”

Seungcheol eyeballs him.

There have been about five moments in Seungcheol’s adult life where he has been truly caught off guard, and three of them involved dogs in inappropriate swimwear. Jihoon getting all flustered and fawning over a paperclip necklace is not quite on that list, but it's close. 

“Yes, well—” Seungcheol scratches his hair sheepishly. “I’m just happy our species can share our technological achievements. We should do it again some time.”

* * *

 

**DAY: 786**

****

Every day Seungcheol checks the most important machinery around the station. Life support, gravity, water pumps, the mainframe (which is saved for last). And every week, he’ll set aside a different set of lesser machines to perform maintenance on. 

It’s almost a sure thing that half the machines will need repairs, and it’s certain that it’s a different part, each time, that needs to be fixed. This is what Seungcheol is good at. He enjoys being able to work with his hands. And if it takes a while for him to work out why a system isn't performing as it should be, then he thanks whatever higher entity there is for the challenge.

This particular night varies a bit from his usual routine, as the mainframe isn't in such good condition this evening. A section of the panel has fallen off, well beyond a retrievable distance, into the coolant. Exposed chips, and wiring, have the stations alarms randomly sounding.

Eventually, ever so slowly, Seungcheol manages to clean out the exposed area, and replace the panelling, leaning precariously over a pool of liquid well below freezing. He hauls heavy machinery out, taking pieces he needs from spare machines, and struggling (with stiff fingers) to not break anything in the process. It takes six hours to fix the problem. By which point he’s covered in freezing cold sweat, and oil. His hands shake as he puts away his tools and the mainframe sinks, slowly, back into the coolant.

By the time he’s packed away all his tools, he's missed his usual dinner time by several hours and is too exhausted to even _think_ about cooking. So he wolfs down a sandwich and heads back to his sleeping quarters.

Jihoon’s already in bed, sleeping face-down in the pillow, in a way that suggests he doesn't breathe like other people, no matter what he says. He’s also situated firmly on _Seungcheol’s_ side, on _Seungcheol’s_ favourite pillow.

Seungcheol should shove him off and reclaim what’s his, but his own exhaustion is potent beneath his skin, so he leaves Jihoon where he is while he prepares for sleep himself with military efficiency. A quick shower, a change of clothes, a quiet command to deactivate the overhead lights, before he eases into bed, head falling hard atop the cool pillow.

The petite alien seems restless against his side, whole body thrumming with light and energy. He makes a noise like he's disapproving of something in his sleep, and Seungcheol makes a vaguely soothing noise into his hair until he goes quiet again.

Seungcheol rolls onto his back, sits staring at the stars through the viewport until his eyelids drop and a rolling fog of dreamlessness blankets his mind and pushes the world away.

He wakes later to the same imperfect darkness.

His internal time sense, reliable even in the timelessness of space, tells him it's been nearly two hours since he nodded off, and he wonders what woke him. He’s still exhausted. His head throbs dully with a half-formed headache and all he wants is to slip back into sleep. But his senses are on high alert: his skin feels tight and sensitive and the hairs at the back of his neck want to stand up.

Something is wrong, but he can’t quite pinpoint what it is. 

He scans the room for anything suspicious, but everything seems as it should be. There are no emergency lights or warning bells heralding doom, just the quiet hum of well-cared for machinery whirring sweetly beyond the walls of their quarters.

Seungcheol is about to roll over and let it lull him back to sleep when he spots it. 

Jihoon is sitting up next to him in the bed, all messy bed hair, and soft pouty lips. And he’s _glowing_. Not in his usual soft, golden hue, but in a bright, fiery red.

Seungcheol is awake immediately, sitting up and rubbing his eyelids.  

“Woah—what the hell--” He blurts, then holds perfectly still when he locks eyes with a very angry looking Jihoon. “What—what’s _wrong_?”

“How could you!” Jihoon growls furiously, but there is hurt in his expression, and a whirlwind of questions flashing in his eyes.

Seungcheol blinks at him, baffled. “How could I what?”

Jihoon shoots him a look of disdain, the red glow of his skin pulsing outwards.

“How could you treat me in such a way? What did I do to receive such hateful acts?”

There is so much pleading in the question that Seungcheol’s throat goes tight. His skin is too hot, his mouth dry. His burgeoning headache is gone, replaced with adrenaline and the frantic staccato of his racing heartbeat in his temples.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Jihoon. I was just sleeping—so were you. Anything else is news to me.” He says, with a sort of jittery uncertainty.

Jihoon’s really angry now, his mouth is pinched white and his eyebrows are drawn down sharply. The red glow has completely abated, and Seungcheol’s not sure if that’s because Jihoon’s got himself under control, or because all hell’s about to break loose.  

“How can you deny it?” Jihoon says, voice as serious as Seungcheol’s ever heard it. “I was there—I saw you with my own eyes. You broke my tricorder!”

“What?” Seungcheol chokes. He coughs to clear his throat, then adds, “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.” Jihoon insists, displeasure sharpening his voice. “You took it from me and yelled. You crushed it under your boot and laughed maniacally at my suffering.”

Seungcheol gawks. His mind racing as he immediately tries to remember when the bloody fuck this had happened.

He wonders for a very long minute whether he's still asleep.

Eventually he decides that he's not.

Jihoon sounds too earnest to be lying, which leaves him scratching his head in honest and heartfelt bewilderment, because he thinks he would remember if he did something like that.

“Jihoon—I didn’t break your tricorder. I mean— _yeah_ , I’ve thought about hiding it from you, but I’d never break it. I know how important it is to you.” He says, trying to keep his voice low and reasonable.

Jihoon’s expression is watchful and heavy now. He presses his lips together with a tight little shake of his head.

“How can you deny it when I saw you. I saw you crush my tricorder and laugh, then you carved open my chest and remove my internal organs for analysis!”

“Woah, woah, woah—” Seungcheol raises his hands in the air. “Hold on a fucking second!”

“You dare invite me to stay, then you commit these atrocities?” Jihoon talks over his protests, scooting farther away without taking his eyes off Seungcheol, “I have misjudged you Human. I believed you to be kind, but you are indeed monstrous.”

Something occurs to Seungcheol then, something so fucking ridiculous he has to laugh.

He can’t help that it comes out a little hysterically, which is unsettling enough that Jihoon tries to make a run for it.

He flips off the bed and starts for the door. Seungcheol grabs him before he gets three steps, keeping his head back so he doesn’t get clocked, but Jihoon’s not a fighter—he doesn’t go beserk like Seungcheol half expects. He twists to shove Seungcheol away, but doesn’t follow up with a punch.

Seungcheol manages to grip him by the wrists and pin him to the mattress—which, in hindsight—is a stupid thing to do to someone you’re trying to calm down.

A look like panic widens Jihoon's eyes. His pulse is too fast by half. Something furious and raw keens in Seungcheol’s chest, but he ignores it, wills his voice calm. “Jihoon— _relax._ I’m not going to hurt you. I think you might have been dreaming _._ ”

“Release me. Release me you monster!” Jihoon hisses, struggling futilely in his grip.

There is wounded disappointment written across his far too expressive face, and Seungcheol curses internally. How is it this ridiculous boy can make him feel  _guilty_  for hurting him in a fucking dream. A fucking dream for fucks sake. What business does he have making Seungcheol reel with remorse for an imagined atrocity?

"Jihoon," Seungcheol stops, draws in a breath, and then lets it go. "Use your brain, think about what you’re _saying_."

"Get off," Jihoon growls, "Let me go, Human, let me--"

"It wasn’t _real_ Jihoon. You imagined it all in your sleep," Seungcheol murmurs—calm, calm. "If I really did what you say I did, how come you’re here, yelling at me right now, hmm?"

"Because I was--" Jihoon begins furiously. "I--I was--"

He pauses, looking a little uncertain. Then he blinks, and blinks again.

Seungcheol breathes a sigh of relief when Jihoon blinks for a third time and awareness comes back into his gaze.

"I—I was sleeping?" He says, relaxing slowly, almost unwilling.

“That’s right.” Seungcheol smiles warmly. “You were sleeping, and you had a dream that I hurt you. It was just a bad dream. A _nightmare_. It’s not real.”

Jihoon considers that in silence for several seconds. This time when he speaks, it's in a quieter tone. Sombre and strangely gentle. “It—it wasn’t real?”

Seungcheol nods and releases his wrists. “That’s right, you were just dreaming. Look—” He says, reaching over to the bedside table his to grab Jihoon’s tricorder.

“My tricorder,” Jihoon says dazedly, sitting up. Then: “It’s not broken anymore.”

“It was _never_ broken. You just _dreamt_ that I broke it.” Seungcheol explains.

“I……dreamt?” Jihoon says quietly, one hand rising absently to his temple and rubbing. There's something soft and surprised there. Like it's a completely foreign concept.

Seungcheol racks his brain for the simplest answer he can offer. All he can do is parse his words down into small bit-sized pieces so that the Alien can understand.

“When we sleep, sometimes out brains remain active and create false, improbable situations that feel real at the time. But they’re not. They’re just dreams. _This_ is reality. Here—now. In reality I would never break your tricorder on purpose. And I would never, ever hurt you.”

Jihoon’s eyes narrow suspiciously, but he looks intrigued, “I have _heard_ of this dream concept, but I have never experienced it before.”

“Probably because you didn’t sleep before. Dreams are more vivid when you sleep.” Seungcheol explains.

Jihoon chews on that, looking more relaxed with every passing moment. He’s trying to think it through. Seungcheol sits and watches him do it, watches him slide a hand down his chest, rubbing an imaginary ache over his sternum. His voice holds unfamiliar vulnerability when he asks, “So you did _not_ carve my body?”

Seungcheol quirks an eyebrow at him. “Does your body look carved? Does it _feel_ like I carved your organs out?”

Jihoon is silent for several seconds before offering a grudging answer, “No. But it _did_. It felt very real.”

Seungcheol raises his hand—hesitates a moment—and finally reaches across the short space to close his fingers around Jihoon's wrist. Warm reassurance. “But it _wasn’t_ , okay. It _wasn’t_. Just your overactive brain playing tricks on you.”

Jihoon’s jaw works for a second, and then he nods stiffly.

He scrubs a hand across his face and says, " _Sorry_ ," like he means it, and that's so unusual--to hear Jihoon apologizing—that Seungcheol is almost blindsided.

“It’s uh—alright. It’s not your fault.” Seungcheol murmurs. After a minute he says, “Just—lets go back to sleep, yeah?”

The furrow in Jihoon’s brow deepens. He shakes his head. “No—no, I cannot sleep again. I do not wish to repeat the dream.”

Seungcheol suppresses the urge to sigh.

Slowly, he breaches the careful distance they've been maintaining, putting his arm around Jihoon's shoulders. Jihoon twitches a little under the touch but doesn't shake Seungcheol off, and they're quiet for a long minute.

“You can’t stop sleeping because you’re afraid of dreaming Jihoon. Dreams can’t hurt you.” He says, calmly and firmly.

“But—"

“I know it felt real,” Seungcheol interjects gently. “Dreams can feel super real. I’ve had my fair share of shitty awful ones, and I know how bad they can be. But dreams can be nice too, you know. You just had a bad dream, a nightmare. But some dreams are so nice you never want to wake up from them.”

Jihoon doesn’t look convinced, but he lets his head rest against Seungcheol’s shoulder, “How do I have a nice dream?”

Seungcheol huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “You can’t really control what you dream about. Dreams just happen. I’m sure there’s a lot of interesting science behind it all, but I can’t explain it. The important thing is—they’re not real. When you wake up, they vanish.”

Jihoon’s expression is difficult to make out from this angle, but he nods and Seungcheol feels the gesture against his shoulder.

 “C’mon.” Seungcheol urges, easing back against the bed.

It's a relief when Jihoon lies back against the pillows next to him and closes his eyes. It doesn’t take long to get him settled, to get his narrow body slotted up against Seungcheol’s own. It’s an oddly comfortable position, Seungcheol thinks; Jihoon’s thigh over his, hips tilted just so, and his head pillowed on Seungcheol’s shoulder, ear close enough to kiss.

Seungcheol can feel the bump of Jihoon’s pulse in some big vein on the underside of his upper arm, the way it eases from an insistent thrum to a more steady thump-thump.

The lay in silence for a few minutes, then Seungcheol slides his hand to Jihoon’s nape to play with his hair. The white, almost translucent strands curl over Seungcheol’s fingers, ridiculously soft, the softest substance in Seungcheol’s world.

“I would never hurt you Jihoon. Ever.” He says, soft steel in every word. “Remember that.”

Jihoon nods and exhales slowly, then turns his head to burrow his face into Seungcheol’s neck. Silence and stillness settle in again, until finally Jihoon says in a smaller voice, “I should not have called you monstrous. I jumped to unjust conclusions.”

Seungcheol swallows, tilting his head so his cheek is resting against the top of Jihoon's head. “It’s okay baby.”

“I am _not_ a baby.” Jihoon huffs, though this time he sounds sleepy. Like he's already drifting off in the warm security of Seungcheol's arms.

“Actually, you kind of are.” Seungcheol says, dipping his head and kissing Jihoon’s ear.

Jihoon’s retort is lost in laboured breathing, his head curling to rest against Seungcheol’s shoulder.

When Seungcheol looks over next, Jihoon’s eyes are closed and his lips are parted. He’s fallen asleep again, just like that, snoring quietly in a way Seungcheol can't help but find anything other than ridiculously adorable.

Seungcheol watches him sleep for a while, then leans over to grab his favourite pillow—since Jihoon’s not using it.

The second he sets his hand on it, Jihoon’s eyelids flutter open halfway. “Mine.”

“Motherfucker,” Seungcheol grumbles under his breath.  

Jihoon smiles, and closes his eyes, and goes back to sleep.

In the morning Seungcheol wakes Jihoon's elbow in his kidney through the fifteen layers of blanket Jihoon has managed to burrito himself in, leaving Seungcheol with only a corner of blanket covering one foot.

 _Well, at least one of us got a decent nights sleep_ —Seungcheol thinks to himself as he begins his day.

 

* * *

 

**DAY: 787**

****

Yellow, green— _red_. And now there’s a blue wire too.

There are two more colours here than Seungcheol was expecting. According to the O2 filter’s schematics, there should only be a green and red wire to contend with. Not two extra wires with no obvious designation.

But it’s okay. Seungcheol’s got this.

He’s a master of improvisation when it comes to ship maintenance, used to cobbling together a bunch of spare parts and making things right. And if he fucks it up, so what? He’ll just have irreparably damaged the oxygen filter on a billion-dollar space station and probably die of asphyxiation. No huge loss.

“Human?” Jihoon’s voice cuts across Seungcheol's awareness, low and light with humour.

"Yeah, what?" Seungcheol manages to keep his tone light, despite the heavy turn of his thoughts.

"You've been staring blankly in the same place for some time," Jihoon says, materializing at his side as though from thin air, "Is everything in order?"

Seungcheol blinks. Swallows. Does his best to sound sincere and smooth when he answers, "Of course. Just trying to untangle a logistical problem."

Jihoon rests a hand on his shoulder, in a way Seungcheol thinks is supposed to be reassuring.

"Do you require assistance?"

"Nah," Seungcheol answers, a little too quickly. He can feel the sweat pooling at the nape of his neck. "I think I figured it out."

It's a lie. He hasn't figured out  _shit_. But the deflection does the trick, averting Jihoon's attention and leaving Seungcheol in relative peace. Leaving him to his spiralling thoughts and the hopelessness of two _extra fucking wires._

He unclips the damaged yellow wire and unscrews the charred circuit board underneath, then replaces it with one he’s salvaged from a previous repair job. It doesn’t quite fit into the empty slot, but as long as he reattaches the wires correctly, he should be able to reboot the filter. He takes hold of a stray red wire—intent or fitting it _somewhere_ , then reaches a strange hole in his memory and stares down at the complicated mess he'd made of the system with a mixture of frustration and annoyance.

“You are doing it wrong.” Jihoon offers quietly, from somewhere behind his left shoulder.

“Excuse me?” Seungcheol grunts.

He appreciates having company when he’s juggling their lives in his hands, but his patience is also wearing thin. Jihoon's voice, bright and energetic, primes his senses in ways he is not equipped to deal with tonight.

“I suppose wrong is not the correct word. What I meant to say was, you are doing it in an unnecessarily complicated fashion. The solution is more simple than what you are currently attempting.” Jihoon provides, rather unhelpfully.

“Listen, Jihoon,” Seungcheol does his best to resolutely  _not_  look up from his work. “—the super smart thing, it’s cute. But I’ve been doing this job for years and I fucking know how to do it. I don’t need you waltzing in here and telling me I could do it better.”

They've played this game at least a dozen times today already and it's tiring. Just because the guy’s a genius doesn't mean he knows more about fixing the O2 filters than everyone else in the universe.

“You’ve re-arranged the wires incorrectly.” Jihoon keeps going, watching him lay waste to the access panel.

And, okay, maybe Jihoon has a point there. It’s the first time Seungcheol’s every had to repair the O2 filters and there’s a dozen more wires in two extra colours than the manual suggests there should be. The schematics clearly haven’t been updated since the station was last upgraded, but it’s not the first time he’s had to improvise. He's definitely not going to let on that he's been thinking it's not quite right since the minute he pulled off that yellow wire by accident when he was trying to reach down to get at the loose bolt. He's sure he put it back in the right place, though.

Mostly sure.

"If you're gonna stand there yammering, maybe you could get down here and hold this flashlight – make yourself useful for a change."

Jihoon drops down on one knee beside him a moment later. All smiles and enthusiasm. Ready to save the world at a moment's notice, and takes the flashlight, slipping in easy behind him to shine it over his shoulder.

“Hold it a little higher.” Seungcheol orders, holding his pliers between his teeth while he snips the frayed edge of the wire.

“Like this?” Jihoon asks, shining the light into his eyes and momentarily blinding him.

Seungcheol sighs deeply. “No, not on _me_ , on that. Why would I need the light on my face?”

He hasn't even touched the instrument panel again when Jihoon says, "You should take out that bolt."

"No, that bolt is part of what holds this whole mess together."

"The bolt serves no function. I suspect it was important before the model was upgraded, and nobody thought to remove it once it became obsolete. It’s only hindering your repair now. If you remove it, then you can put this here," he points at one of the yellow wires and then to the empty space left by the faulty one that Seungcheol removed. "And it'll all work again. Good as new."

Seungcheol's pretty sure it's not going to actually work – Jihoon might have been a real genius on his home planet, but he's a bonafide rookie when it comes to human technology. Book smarts don't really count for a thing out in the black of space anyhow; but Seungcheol tries it anyway, thinking the whole thing will fall apart under his hands and he’ll be back at square one...

But when he re-boots the system, the oxygen pump roars to life, without even its usual second of hesitation after a system restart. Then there is an echoing thud around the ship, as the oxygen filtration system comes back online.

Seungcheol looks over at Jihoon, all kinds of shocked and more than a little bit sore that the petite who looks barely legal and near-to-never gets his hands the tiniest bit dirty can put an oxygen pump back together almost faster than he can blink.

Jihoon looks up at him and smiles, smugger than a rooster in a house full of easy hens. “You are welcome.”

Seungcheol glares at him as he stands up and brushes dirt off of his knees. “You’re lucky you’re so fucking cute.”

* * *

 

**DAY: 788**

The problem with being locked in an enclosed space, Seungcheol thinks, is that no matter how much you like the people you're locked in with, you end up hating them _just_ a little.

His piloting shift is over for the night and it's been an exhausting day and he wants nothing more than a stupidly long nap, but that's not going to happen. Not now, maybe not ever.

Okay, that probably sounds a bit dramatic—but it’s Jihoon’s fault for having a shower and then leaving his damp towels all over the bed, like what? They’re going to hang _themselves_ up to dry?

Now the bedsheets are damp, and the mattress is damp and Seungcheol’s favourite pillow is damp—and Jihoon’s nowhere to be seen of course—so Seungcheol can’t even glare at him about it while he strips the bed and tips the mattress against the wall.

You can get used to anything given the right motivation, the right conditioning, but there are some things that you cannot endure. For Seungcheol’s it’s always been laziness.

He’s a military man, has his bed made every morning as if he used a ruler when making it: pillows neatly stacked, blankets pulled taut and excess tucked under the mattress, sheets as smooth as he can get them without breaking out an iron.

Jihoon, in comparison, is some kind of Hobo Alien. He’s several shades of lazy that Seungcheol struggles to ignore.

Sure, he’s pro-active when it comes to his research and ‘experiments’ and can wax lyrical all day about his superior smarts, but ask him to re-fill the toilet roll holder or take his empty mug back to the sink and suddenly it’s like a minefield of complexity that has to be navigated by sheer avoidance.

Seungcheol can't help but think that Jihoon is perfectly aware that he’s pissing him off with his sloppy attitude. He finds himself curious whether Jihoon's fiercely intent on being himself anyway, or if he simply doesn’t know how to be anything else. Though the idea of Jihoon attempting to be anything else seems strangely preposterous.

Maybe he had an Alien Butler at home and cleaning up after himself is beneath him? Or maybe he genuinely expects his empty mug of cocoa to disintegrate into thin after when he’s finished with it. 

Who knows. Either way—damp towels on the bed are the final straw.

* * *

 

After searching all the usual Jihoon hide-outs; the med-bay, the kitchen, the 'research hub' Jihoon made for himself behind the couch which looks suspiciously like a blanket fort, Seungcheol eventually finds him in the greenhouse, underneath the cherry blossom tree.

Seungcheol’s not exactly sure _what_ Jihoon’s doing, but as he approaches he can see Jihoon has his palm resting on the trunk, and he’s murmuring something in a quiet voice which Seungcheol doesn't have a hope of translating.

Most of the plants in the garden were carefully selected by Central’s Habitation Team either for their ability to convert CO2 into oxygen or to produce nutritious food. With a limit on space, the vegetation chosen must follow a specific set of rules: No trees, no climbing vines, nothing with hard roots that go deeper than one meter and nothing that takes a long time to grow.

The tree seems to be the only exception, seeing as it swallows up more space than anything else in the garden, needs its own damn water supply and contributes nothing but flowery detritus a few months in the year.

Seungcheol suspects its addition was merely _aesthetical_ —that some psych-ops analyst suggested it’s presence would minimize the psychological impact of extended space travel, or that a reminder of home would be _soothing_ to the occupants on-board the station or something.

An elaborate magic trick is what it is. A trick to keep the mind from contemplating the larger picture, from looking out the window and seeing the depth and breadth of space, of the artificial recreation of the world that he is floating in.  The slivers of metal and plastic keeping him from the shattering chill of space.

Seungcheol can’t imagine there being a good enough reason, psychological or otherwise, to plant a tree on-board a space station where it will never feel or see the sun’s warmth. Nevertheless, he’s happy it’s there. He loves how the cherries smell in spring, when the pink blossoms are full and open, and for a long time that tree was the only thing keeping him company. It’s probably why he’s a little on edge that Jihoon’s _toying_ with it.

“What are you doing?” Seungcheol asks, approaching him cautiously.

Jihoon’s stops murmuring abruptly and turns his head. “Isn’t that obvious? I’m conversing with this lifeform.”

“But….that’s a tree.” Seungcheol points out, dumbfounded.

Jihoon raises an enquiring brow. “So?”

“So, trees don’t talk.” Seungcheol says slowly, because sometimes, advanced alien species or not, it pays to remind Jihoon of the obvious.

“All living things communicate Seungcheol,” Jihoon corrects, in that special way he has that suggests he loses IQ points merely by breathing the same air as Seungcheol. “Perhaps not in a language you understand, but _I_ am capable of communicating with it. We’re having a very interesting discussion actually—about _you_.”

Seungcheol looks at the tree contemplatively.

It hadn't occurred to him that Jihoon might be capable of talking to trees. It’s not…implausible per se; Jihoon’s an Alien who floats in space without a suit and glows when he’s sleeping, and talking to plants, well….

It’s perfectly conceivable considering. 

“Okay then, what’s it saying?” He asks at last, watching petals drift to the lawn.

“At the moment—nothing I think you’d want to know. It’s current opinion of you is not very flattering.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “What? _Why_? I thought me and Mr tree got along well. I used to come down here every day and read under it.”

There’s almost a surprised, confused sort of fondness to Jihoon’s expression.

“I think _that_ is where the animosity originated.” Jihoon explains.

Seungcheol opens his mouth, but Jihoon holds up a finger to ask for a second. He turns to the tree and starts to glow softly once more, he murmurs something under his breath and then nods a few times before turning back to Seungcheol.

“The tree is upset that you no longer visit. It’s disappointed you were only using it until something more interesting came along to spend your time with.”

Seungcheol laughs, because what else can he do.

“I guess that’s kind of true—” Thoughtful, he scratches his stubbled cheek. “I _have_ been spending less time down here. But that’s mostly your fault. I’m so busy keeping you company and making sure you don’t destroy the station, I haven’t had time to visit.”

Jihoon frowns at him sideways, “The tree doesn’t appreciate you passing the blame.”

“Alright, alright. I’m—I’m sorry tree. I didn’t mean to hurt your….” Seungcheol flounders for a way to phrase it that won't sound stupid, but ultimately accepts that it will because he’s talking to a tree. “…. _feelings_.”

“The tree wants you to embrace it.” Jihoon provides, like it's a life or death situation.

Seungcheol side-eyes him. “Uhm. _What_?”

“Embrace the tree!”

“Alright—alright. Shit, uhm—.” Seungcheol hesitates, then steps forward to wrap his arms awkwardly around the tree trunk. He feels positively Vegan all of a sudden. “What’s the tree saying now? Are we good?”

Jihoon fails to answer.

When Seungcheol cranes his neck to look at him, he finds the alien watching him with a slight, strange smile on his lips, so out of place with the circumstances.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing.” Jihoon tsks, his expression turning opaque once more. “I just find it amusing how easily your species are fooled into believing things. That certainly explains your fanciful notions regarding religion.”

“Wait a minute—” Seungcheol snaps, then jerks backwards because he realises he’s still hugging the fucking tree. He brushes off the cherry blossom petals clinging to his T-shirt and narrows his eyes at Jihoon. “So you _weren’t_ communicating with the tree?”

Jihoon makes a noise in his throat that's amused and ever so slightly patronising at the same time.

“No, I wasn’t. I was conducting a simple behavioural experiment, into human gullibility. Contrary to my expectations, you failed. Although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, the human mind is so inferior I imagine you’d believe this rock was sentient of I told you so.”

A spark of annoyance flickers in Seungcheol.

“Hey—you can’t make generalisations about my intelligence based on a lie you told me. Of course, I’m going to believe you if you tell me you can talk to trees. You’re an advanced Alien capable of things I could only _imagine_.”

Jihoon levels him an assessing look, “Hmm, but the speed at which you accepted the falsehood is most concerning. You didn’t even _attempt_ to use logic to dismiss my suggestion.”

“You’re an _Alien."_ Seungcheol intones, _"_ Any logic I would normally apply to situations flew right out the window the minute I saw you floating outside the station without a suit.”

That seems to give Jihoon pause, and he tilts his head just slightly to the side. “So, it is _my_ fault you failed to use logic? Are you saying that because I am capable of things beyond your comprehension you will cease to think rationally and assume anything is possible?”

“Well— _yeah_.” Seungcheol huffs.

“Classic Human.” Jihoon scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m amazed your species hasn’t wiped itself out of existence with such idiocy. I suspect your large biceps are the reason you are still alive.”

Seungcheol feels the sharp, low burn of anger in his gut. He feels his face tense uncontrollably, his fingers digging into the palm of his hand until he starts to lose sensation in them.

He isn't sure why Jihoon’s estimation of his intelligence bothers him, but it does. Especially when Jihoon says it so _frankly_ , as if that’s all he sees when he looks at Seungcheol—an inferior species—an idiot.

The laughter vanishes from Jihoon's expression then. The Alien reaches up to trail his fingers over the holographic collar glowing _red_ around Seungcheol’s neck, seems unhappy with whatever he finds.

 “You’re emoti-sensor is emitting an unexpected hue. Am I to understand you do not approve of my experiment?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer him. He just turns on his heel and leaves Jihoon there talking to himself.

A quiet, "Human? Where are you going?" floats out after him. 

* * *

 

Turns out Seungcheol can’t even _sulk_ in peace.

Jihoon’s so far up his own ass he doesn’t seem to understand that Seungcheol’s giving him the cold shoulder. Instead of doing the sensible thing, and letting Seungcheol get over his anger in solitude, he’s poking him in the arm or jostling his elbow at regular intervals, following at his heels like a puppy and pressing so close to him in the rec room he's practically in his lap.

“Human?” Jihoon says, for the hundredth time, lurking at the end of the couch. “ _Human_?”

Seungcheol flips a page in his book and goes right on ignoring him, pointedly and obviously.

He can wait him out. It’s already been an hour. If he gives Jihoon enough time, surely he'll reach whatever conclusion is lingering just out of reach. _Surely_ it’ll come to him eventually.

“You are not responding to me. Why won’t you respond?” Jihoon asks, slinking into the empty space next to Seungcheol on the couch.

He looks worried, but not the guilty sort of worried he should be looking.

Seungcheol turns another page in his book and says nothing.

He’s angry, and he wants Jihoon to know. Judging by the way Jihoon’s shifting on his knees and shining his tricorder into Seungcheol’s ear—he’s not getting the point across.

“Have you damaged your hearing?” Jihoon asks. “I can heal you.”

Seungcheol jerks his head away when Jihoon does something that makes the tricorder start to hum quietly. “No, there’s nothing wrong with me hearing. I’m _ignoring_ you.”

Jihoon gives him the helplessly confused face, “Why?”

“Because I don’t appreciate being insulted Jihoon.” Seungcheol growls. His jaw is kind of clenching of its own accord.

Jihoon pulls a face, it's mostly hair and pout. It's one Seungcheol hasn't seen before. “I didn’t insult you.”

“Yes, you did. You were implying, very obviously, that I’m stupid.” Seungcheol says firmly.

“I wasn’t _implying_ it—I was stating it, as a _fact_. You _are_ stupid.” Jihoon reminds him, and not for the first time. “Compared to me, your entire _species_ is stupid. Don’t take it personally.”

Seungcheol stares at him, outraged. His guest is about two smart-ass words away from getting a serious dressing down, or possibly a spanking.

“How can I _not_ take that personally?” he says slowly, because he thinks he's just gotten a glimpse of the sharp and insane alien clarity that is Jihoon's thought processes.

Jihoon shrugs, nonchalant.  “By accepting it as the factual observation it is. You are stupid— _fact_.”

“This,” Seungcheol lifts a finger. “ _This_ is why I’m ignoring you. If you pulled this shit back on Earth, someone else would have whooped your ass.”

"That seems like an unnecessarily dramatic response," Jihoon drawls.

Seungcheol narrows his eyes at him. "You realise you live in the very largest glass house there. How can you say that when you’re the supreme _ruler_ of unnecessary drama Jihoon. Or did you forget about catching your finger in the door yesterday and whining about it for _three fucking_ _hours_?”

“No, I did not forget.” Jihoon pouts, rubbing said finger. “My finger still hurts actually—” He murmurs, then hold it up to Seungcheol’s face. “Can you kiss it better again?”

“No.” Seungcheol growls.

“Fine.” Jihoon huffs, crossing his arms. “If it makes you feel better, I will apologize for stating the fact. I am sorry you are stupid Human.”

Seungcheol’s not just angry now, he’s livid.

He wasn't expecting an apology, he’s not sure what he was expecting to be honest, but this is _bullshit_.

“You know what Jihoon,” He seethes, clapping his hands down on his thighs. He stands from his seat and slams his book down on the table. “Up yours. Up wherever your species traditionally crams things.” He snarls, then stalks out of the room without a backwards glance.

 

* * *

 

Seungcheol’s still angry three hours later, holed up in the gym.

He’s not working out his frustration with exercise or anything, but there’s a couch in the corner to sit on and an interesting view of the bisecting upper decks, and he knows it’s the one place on the station Jihoon hesitates to venture. The Alien says it’s because it’s the coldest area of the station, but Seungcheol likes to think he’s intimated by the array of machines on display.

Physical prowess is perhaps the only arena his species does _not_ excel at. 

With not much to do, Seungcheol digs around until he finds a pack of cards. He sits on the leather couch, laying out solitaire games and playing them through.

It takes more than a dew attempts for him to finish a hand all the way through, no cheating.

"Seungcheol."

At the sound of his _actual_ name, said in a very small voice, Seungcheol turns to find Jihoon standing in the doorway, holding a plate of nicely browned toast. It’s been sliced too, into neat little triangles and buttered exactly to Seungcheol’s liking.

For a brief moment, Seungcheol’s certain Jihoon has just come to boast about his accomplished toast making skills, until Jihoon closes the distances between them and hands him the plate. 

“What’s this?” Seungcheol’s aware that he sounds surprised.

Jihoon just stares at him with huge, serious eyes and says, “Toast.”

Seungcheol snorts, some of his foul mood evaporating. “I know what it _is_ —but why are you giving it to me?”

Jihoon shifts from foot to foot. His movements stilted; awkward. “I made it for you, because you are angry with me.” He whispers without looking at Seungcheol.

Seungcheol doesn't laugh, though it's a close thing. There's a noise buried somewhere in his throat that threatens to burst free at the idea of Jihoon trying to win his friendship with toast. But he holds it long enough to pick up a piece—which is still warm, and that should be impossible given the amazing powers of toast to go cold the moment you look away from it.

“And you thought the toast was going to make me _less_ angry?”

Jihoon shakes his head, then lifts one shoulder in a gesture that Seungcheol would call self-conscious in anyone else.

“My research into human feeding habits indicated that toast ranks highly as a comfort food for humans. Humans in deep emotional turmoil will consume several slices in one sitting, often lathering each slice with inadvisable quantities of butter. There is a soporific effect achieved, that lightens their mood considerably. There were other foods in my research that ranked higher, but I do not yet possess the skill to assemble them. I was hoping the toast would suffice on this occasion.” Jihoon says, tone vaguely hopeful.

He fidgets some more, before finally making eye contact with Seungcheol. “Is it working?”

Seungcheol eyes the toast for a fraction of a second, and then shrugs and stuffs it in his mouth.

“I guess I’m feeling a little better,” He says begrudgingly, chewing. “But I _was_ hungry—and making me toast doesn’t excuse you for insulting me before.”

“I didn’t insult—”

“Yeah, you did Jihoon.” Seungcheol smoothly disagrees, biting into his second slice. “And not only is it rude, it’s not fair. Yeah—you’re smarter than me—I’m not arguing that fact. But there’s just some stuff you don’t do to people. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to embarrass and demean you since you’ve arrived here. I could have had you brushing your teeth with the toilet brush and wearing a thong on your head and laughed my ass off about your naiveté in secret. But I didn’t take advantage of you like that—and I would have expected the same curtesy back.”

There's a long, stilted silence while Jihoon opens and closes his mouth, repeatedly, like he's trying to find the right thing to say and failing at it. It makes him look a little like a fish.

“I—I didn’t see it that way.”

Seungcheol inclines his head, “Of course you didn’t, cause all you care about is the _science_ , not my feelings.”

Jihoon looks genuinely stricken, “I care about your feelings!” He blurts out. “It is why I fitted you with the emoti-sensor. It is why I made you toast. I wanted to make you _feel_ better.”

“Gonna need more than toast to make me feel better.” Seungcheol tells him around a mouthful of toast.

For a few seconds Jihoon's blank, deflated—then he sharpens.

“If my attempts are not sufficient, I am prepared to do _other_ things to elevate your mood.”

The words are stiff and formal—nearly identical to Jihoon's usual tone and word choice, but for some reason it sounds different this time. There's a vague sense of suggestion clinging to the statement.

Seungcheol arches one eyebrow, “What other things?”

“I can do things for you…..I can perform… _Favours_.”

There's a soft, dizzy uncertainty in Jihoon’s voice, like he wishes he had a better word.

Seungcheol's kind of stunned by the one he did pick.

Some mischievous instinct makes him ask, “What kind of favours are we talking about here? That’s a pretty broad term that could encompass a million different things.”

Jihoon shrugs, “Whatever you want, I will happily comply with all your desires.”

Seungcheol’s very glad to have swallowed his toast, or else he would have been choking on it.  

For a moment there's a glint of indecipherable intent in Jihoon’s eyes. Something bright and sharp, fierce in a way that knocks conflicting impulses loose in Seungcheol's chest. Part of him wants to push, to find out what that look means. Another, smarter part of him shies instinctively away from his own curiosity.

Jihoon is young, Seungcheol remembers. Not a kid, but still. Young.

There are some things he shouldn’t ask for, and even if he could, tonight’s not the time to try to figure out what’s going on behind Jihoon’s eyes. Seungcheol’s got his hypothesis, but there are too many variables, and he has no desire to have this—whatever’s going on between them—blow up in his face.

“So?” Jihoon continues, the shadow of his eyelashes dipping over his cheekbones. “Is there something you would like me to do to earn your forgiveness?”

“Yeah,” Seungcheol tells him, taking another bite of his toast. “Make me another round of toast and we’ll call it even.”

Jihoon blinks at him quietly for a moment, like Seungcheol’s surprised him, then he grins at him so hard it’s a wonder he doesn't split in two.

 

* * *

 

**DAY: 790**

****

Seungcheol’s already tenuous sleep patterns are thrown off a few days later, when Central schedules a supply drop.

The station is outfitted with enough supplies to carry Seungcheol through to the end of his mission, but occasionally Central will make un-manned deposits if one of their cargo shuttles is passing nearby. Which, when you’re stationed this far out in space, is approximately every six months.

There’s never anything special on-board; just upgrades for the computer, spare machinery for repairs and a few extra rations for the pantry. But Seungcheol needs to be present on deck anyway, so when Central authorises the shipment, he organizes himself to be awake for when it’s scheduled to arrive. 

It means monitoring the flight deck each night for two days on either side of the ETA, and that means a lot of staring at the same view outside the viewport for hours on end.

 _Best view known to mankind_ , someone could argue, _you’re seeing things only a handful of people ever will, count yourself lucky_. But ultimately, stars are just bright pinpricks of destruction, explosions and chemical chain reactions and pure energy, massive and luminous against the backdrop of the void.

He’d much prefer the view of mountains enshrouded in fog, light refracting through dew; forests of tall, towering redwoods, or damp, misting jungles awash in a sea of green. He’ll probably feel differently about it when he’s back on Earth, looking up.

Getting home used to seem like a lifetime away, but now that he has company the days seem to be blurring into each other. He’ll be back on Earth before he knows it, and Jihoon—what will become of--

Seungcheol’s line of thought if cut short when he realises he’s not alone on the flight deck.

He turns, not entirely surprised to find Jihoon curled into the co-pilot’s chair that looks three sizes too big for him, watching him from out of the darkness. His arms are wrapped around his knees, fingers tangled in the hem of his pyjama cuff.  

For such a little guy he takes up a lot of space once you notice he’s there.

Seungcheol swivels the chair round just far enough to see him.

"What are you doing up this early?" He asks him, over the quiet hum of night.

“Your mom.” Jihoon answers without missing a beat.

Seungcheol smiles even though he’s trying not to.

He really regrets not activating a child-lock setting on his data-pad before he gave Jihoon free reign. Wonders whether he should be pleased or horrified that human televised entertainment is having  _influences_  on his Alien when he isn't looking.

“Very funny Jihoon,” He says, frowning as he takes in Jihoon’s serious expression. The reflection of light from the console flickers patterns over his face. He looks troubled. “What’s up? You have another bad dream?”

Jihoon fiddles with his pyjama cuff, toes curling and uncurling against the soft leather of the seat. The night is still and silent around them, which means there's nothing else for Jihoon to look at—no movement to draw his attention—but he keeps his eyes averted anyway.

“C’mon—talk to me.” Seungcheol says, watching him carefully.

When Jihoon still doesn't look at him, he reaches out—sets a firm hand on Jihoon's arm and lets his fingers close into a commanding grip. “What’s up?”

“That’s what she said.” Jihoon blurts out, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

Seungcheol laughs, a startled burst, “No, no. Nice try though. I’ll give you points for the ‘your mom’ line, but ‘that’s what she said’ only works if I say something _unintentionally_ double entendre. You can’t just use it anywhere and expect it to make sense.”

Jihoon heaves a put-upon sigh and rolls his shoulders, “Human satire is confusing.”

“I don’t know if your mom jokes are the best example of human satire as such.” Seungcheol chuckles, scratching his chin. “What’s comedy like on your world? Do your people _make_ jokes?”

Jihoon juts his chin out proudly, “Of course. We are renowned for our humorous anecdotes.” He smiles, very slightly, “I have a good one, would you like to hear it?”

Seungcheol dips his head, a gentleman’s nod. “Sure.”

“I’m not sure it will translate well, but it goes something like this. A hydrogen atom and a helium atom are floating in the intergalactic medium. The Hydrogen atom asks, how many parsecs to the nearest planet, the helium atom says—I don’t know. I’m not ionised yet!”

Seungcheol blinks at him, waiting for the punchline—but apparently that has come and gone because Jihoon is already laughing, a giggling snicker as though it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.

When Seungcheol doesn’t join in, his laughter stops abruptly and dark eyes blink up at Seungcheol, awash in disappointment.

“Did you not enjoy my joke?” Jihoon murmurs.

“Oh—oh I did. I did. I just—” Seungcheol fumbles, then plasters on a fake grin. “I just got it. _Ionised_.” “Wow, that’s—” He throws in some fake laughter and a thigh slap for good measure. “That’s the best joke I’ve ever heard.”

Jihoon lifts a shoulder. “It is one of my favourites.” He whispers with a self-conscious smile. 

“I can see why.” Seungcheol says, wiping a non-existent tear from the corner of his eye. If there’s a place in heaven for people who laugh at non-funny jokes to spare someone’s feelings, he’s earned it. “My sides are _splitting_ right now.”

Jihoon smiles softly and rests his chin on his knee. “Now it’s your turn. Amuse me with your human humour.”

“Okay, let me think…” Seungcheol turns to stare out the viewport and scratches his chin.

Put on the spot, he can’t really remember the last time he heard a really good joke that made him laugh out loud. He’s got plenty of _crude_ jokes, but resists the urge to make one because Jihoon probably won't get it and that's half the fun. Or maybe he _does_ get them but he's just too intelligent to admit as much. It's not like he isn't rocking a fierce poker face there. He should absolutely teach Jihoon to play poker at some point. He could call it 'an exercise in subterfuge' rather than filthy, filthy gambling.

Eventually he settles for some lame ass science joke he heard on _The Big Bang Theory._ He’s sure Jihoon will appreciate the science behind it, if nothing else.

“Alright. Uhm—so a neutron walks into a bar and asks the bartender, how much for a drink? The bartender replies, For you—no charge.”

He has no idea _why_ the joke makes Jihoon laugh, but it does. A helpless, exasperated, almost manic sound as his eyes pinch shut and he slumps forward with shaking shoulders. He laughs so long Seungcheol has the distinct urge to ask if he's okay.

“You liked that huh?” He asks, confused.

Jihoon just laughs harder, shaking with it, clutching his stomach.

“Yes—” He says, a howl of mirth escaping around the words, “You are so funny.”

Seungcheol can’t help but laugh along too—not because it’s funny, it’s not even a funny joke—but Jihoon’s flushed bright red with amusement and his hair is everywhere and he's biting down on his fist to keep himself from laughing again, and Seungcheol can’t help but get dragged along in bemusement. 

After a minute, Jihoon's laughter quiets, and he slumps back into his chair. He breathes heavily for a second, in that way you do when you're trying to calm yourself from hysteria, and then he says.

“I—I almost lost control of my bladder, that’s never happened before. You are truly a comedic genius Seungcheol.”

It takes Seungcheol a moment to register that Jihoon really means that, and he scratches the back of his head sheepishly. Comedic genius is a _bit_ of a stretch—but he’s not about to disabuse Jihoon of the notion.

“Wow—uhm, thanks. I was beginning to think you weren’t capable of compliments.” He smirks.

Jihoon says nothing, but he turns to look out the window and his mouth twists into a tiny, almost imperceptible smile at the corner.

The lights from the console makes the side of his face blue, picks out all his hard clean lines. He looks unconsciously, heartbreakingly beautiful, and it’s on the tip of Seungcheol’s tongue to tell him so.

Instead he reaches over and catches him by the wrist.

“C’mere.”

Jihoon makes a surprised noise when Seungcheol pulls him off the chair, but shifts easily over the gap between the seats to sit astride Seungcheol’s thighs.

Seungcheol's aware suddenly of how cold Jihoon is everywhere they touch. Every line of skin, every twitching muscle. He gets the feeling Jihoon's been sitting there this whole time, trying not to shiver, ruthlessly clamping down on his body's natural defence against the cold for a while. 

“Jesus, you’re freezing.” He murmurs, rubbing his hands down Jihoon’s arms, trying to press warmth into them. “Why didn’t you say anything? Usually you’re trying to leech all the warmth off me when you’re cold.”

“I was trying to respect your need for personal space.” Jihoon says, and he sounds so meek about it that Seungcheol wants to punch himself in the face for being such a dick about it before.

He supposes he _had_ been rather vocal about that issue. Now he can’t imagine why it mattered so much to him. He’d much prefer it like this between them.

“You know what—fuck my personal space.” He announces. Then he pulls Jihoon in closer, arms folding to curve round the Alien’s small back, he lets his hands spread on his shoulder blades and the shallow curve of his spine. He pulls until they're pressed together so tightly there's barely room to breathe between them.

To his delight, Jihoon flushes. He looks startled, but also a little pleased. He makes a noise, quiet and satisfied, then rests his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder.

A scant few seconds later, the _glowing_ starts.

Seungcheol had assumed that Jihoon would only glow during his sleep, that it was some kind of quirky Alien battery recharge. But Jihoon’s wide awake now, and he’s glowing so bright and intense it's hard to look at. Seungcheol's not sure he could look away if he wanted to, and his voice catches suddenly, stubbornly in his throat.

“So, uhm—I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s with the _glowing_ thing?”

“It’s a unique form of communication my species possesses. But unlike most other forms of communication, I cannot control it.” Jihoon whispers, pressing the words distractingly along Seungcheol's throat, nuzzling like an affectionate cat. “We radiate different hues when we are experiencing intense emotions.”

“Huh. So….what are you feeling now that’s making you all….goldy?”

Jihoon breathes quietly for a moment, then whispers, “I feel safe…..at peace.”

“Oh, right.” Seungcheol makes his tone light, but he’s caught off guard, can't quite smooth the rough gravel of feeling. “That’s, uhm—good to know. I’m happy you’re at peace here.”

Jihoon pillows his head more comfortably on Seungcheol’s shoulder, his eyes on the viewport. “I’m not at peace here—I’m at peace with _you_.”

Seungcheol’s whole world kind of turns upside down a little bit. He isn’t entirely sure what to say to that.

Jihoon feels safe with him—that’s pretty huge. He didn’t think he was doing a particularly stellar job as a housemate, but he must be doing _something_ right. It strikes him then, as he stares at the petite Alien curled up in his lap, that Jihoon is glad to have his company. As glad as he is to have Jihoon's.

They stay that way for a while, not saying much. Seungcheol feels strangely at peace too, almost outside of himself, until a soft beep from the console breaks their quiet, blissful moment.

Jihoon startles briefly, then leans over to study the screen, taut and urgent.

“What is that? Is it a response—to my distress signal?”  

Seungcheol purses his lips, taking a look for himself.

"Let's see." He says, tapping on the console to zoom in on the incoming object. A slate gray dot appears in the middle of the screen and grows larger as it gets closer. It’s immediately obvious what the incoming vessel is.

“Uh—no. Sorry. It’s actually an incoming cargo shipment I was expecting. See—” He says, gesturing at the pod on the viewscreen, “That’s Central’s insignia on the side of the pod.”

Jihoon quickly turns to glance out the viewport, then looks back at the screen again. He seems tense, almost frightened. It's on the tip of Seungcheol's tongue to say something, he doesn't know what—just something to take the edge off the situation—but then Jihoon slumps back against his chest again, his shoulders sagging dejectedly.

“Of course it is.” He mumbles, sounding remote rather than annoyed. 

A buzzer sounds, and the bay doors open to accept the cargo.

“C’mon.” Seungcheol says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, “Let’s head down to the loading deck and check it out. They might have accepted my request for more Cola.”

Jihoon makes a quiet noise of surprise, then in a flash, he’s leaping out of Seungcheol’s lap and zipping out of the flight deck.

“Hold yer horses, I haven’t opened the hangar yet.” Seungcheol yells after him.

* * *

 

Jihoon bounces from foot to foot, eager and excited as Seungcheol punches in the code sequence to open the crate.

“What is it? Is there cola?”

“You’ll see soon enough, stand back.” Seungcheol tells him. The crate hisses as the seal releases, then slides open.

Seungcheol waits for the fine layer of mist to float out of the crate before diving in. The top quarter of the crate is protective packaging, but underneath the foam padding he pulls out several vacuum packed, foil envelopes, labelled: Potatoes, Carats, parsnips, cranberry sauce etc. There’s another layer of padding to contend with, before Seungcheol reaches the centre of the crate and freezes in surprise.

“Woah—awesome.” He grins, hauling out a medium sized potted conifer tree.

Jihoon’s not paying any attention to the tree; he’s peering inside the crate with a look of longing in his face, searching for his cola. No such luck. When he finally does look at the tree, his expression isn’t delighted or awestruck. It’s pragmatic, assessing.

“Why would they send you a tree. You already _have_ a tree.”

“It’s a _Christmas_ tree Jihoon.” Seungcheol explains, standing back to inspect it.

It’s on the small side for a tree, only 4 foot tall. But hell—it’s a Christmas tree, just in time for Christmas. “This must be a Christmas care package from Central. Oh look, they’ve even included a pudding. They’re really pushing the boat out this year.”

Jihoon is now wearing his favourite blank face on the other side of the crate, “Christmas?”

A slow grin breaks out over Seungcheol’s face, “Oh boy Jihoonie. You’re in for some fun.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) YAY CHRISTMAS.  
> 2) I hope I have Alien Christmas uploaded in time for Christmas.  
> 3) I love Alien Jihoon. He's rude and abrupt, but in a an innocent way. And he's got Seungcheol wrapped around his little finger.  
> 4) Hope you enjoyed the update. Thank you for reading! Feedback always appreciated.


	4. Traditions

**DAY: 791**

It's the soft ' _click, click, click_ ' that drags Seungcheol out of sleep. Like the background noise to a strange dream. He blinks at the ceiling for a second before he decides it's brighter than it should be.

He rolls over.

Jihoon's sitting up at the desk, face lit by the glow of the data-pad screen, like he's in some sort of tense cyber-thriller.

A quick glance to the clock on the nightstand reveals it 3.25am Central time—which, _seriously_?

It’s very possible Jihoon’s woken up in the middle of the night to watch Spongebob Squarepants, and if that turns out to be true, Seungcheol thinks he might have to confiscate the data-pad from him. Or at least ration his hours on the damn thing. He kind of gets the impression that Jihoon’s species can be pretty obsessive about …well, _everything_. And the last thing he needs is Jihoon to develop a Spongebob Squarepants addiction on top of his Coca Cola addiction and his hot-chocolate addiction.

But the expression on Jihoon's face isn't exactly the sweaty hollow-eyed face of an addict. Instead he looks fascinated, prodding at the screen with the expression of someone who's confident in their ability to learn new things, even if he's obviously not exactly all the way there yet.

Seungcheol's already kicking the sheets out of the way before he's decided whether he's getting up or not. He moves across the floor, and it's cold under his bare feet, cold in the room.

"What are you doing?" he asks, barely loud enough to hear. He leans a hand on Jihoon's shoulder and the Alien, for a second, stiffens under the pressure. But then he carefully relaxes, giving under Seungcheol's fingers.

“Research," Jihoon says, equally quietly. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

Seungcheol squeezes his shoulder. "It’s fine, I’m a light sleeper anyway.”

He leans down, finds the glare of the screen, which thankfully isn't displaying Spongebob’s smiley face for a change, but the Google Earth app showing a map of Lapland.

"Jihoonie," Seungcheol says carefully. "Are you using Google Earth to look for Santa Claus?"

“Of course not.” Jihoon huffs quietly. The globe on the screen spins under his drifting finger. "The satellite images are updated far too sporadically for it to be a serviceable tool in real time, but I thought I could at least use it to pin-point the location of his base of operations. Then perhaps I could visit him in person one day. He seems like such a fascinating man."

Seungcheol cringes internally, because when he started explaining the concept of Christmas to Jihoon, he was sure the culture clash and the stories of the fat man in the chimney would send his Alien brain spinning.

But Jihoon’s been so weirdly accepting of it all—it kind of hurts to burst his bubble.

“Listen, Jihoonie,” Seungcheol begins hesitantly. “You need to know something about Santa. Santa isn’t—He isn’t—”

Jihoon turns his head to look at him. The low blue-green of the data-pad leaves his face strangely vulnerable in the dark.

“Isn’t what?”

Seungcheol squeezes his eyes shut.

He can’t believe he’s going to have to have the ‘ _Kris Kringle isn’t real’ chat_ with Jihoon.

And he really should have it—shouldn’t he? He’d always believed it was in his best interests—in humanity's best interests really—for him to be perfectly honest with Jihoon about every little human query he might have. So he should to be up front and honest about this, even if Jihoon’s searching for Saint Nick’s trail with so much earnest hope it’s breaking Seungcheol’s heart in two.

“—Isn’t visible on Google Maps.” Seungcheol finally replies with a perfectly straight face. “He uses a jamming radar to conceal his location from thieves. You’ll never find any trace of him, unless he _wants_ you to. He’s an illusive bastard when he wants to be.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Jihoon smiles, turning back to the screen.

Seungcheol huffs laughter and leans all the way into Jihoon's shoulders, reading the open tabs all along the top of the screen.

“You sure got a lot of tabs about Christmas open here—" He murmurs as he navigates through each one. And there’s a whole ton of them; Wikipedia articles about the _Origins_ of Christmas, ice skating and Douglas Fir pine trees; blogs on how to decorate your home for winter, last minute gift ideas and the best Christmas Songs and recipes upon recipes for everything from plum pudding to the best gingerbread.

For the last two years, Seungcheol’s Christmases have been a day marked by extreme boredom punctuated with bouts of sulky, childish envy. He could hardly be blamed for letting the day roll by without much fanfare; he was lightyears away from home after all, and though he could re-create the turkey dinner easily enough, there was no tree, no carols, no presents to be had. He never saw the point _half_ -celebrating something just for the sake of it, especially when he was all alone.

But now there's Jihoon, excited and eager, and Seungcheol’s permitted this little Christmas: an echo of the first Christmas he remembers from his childhood. He’s embarrassed to admit, he’s kind of looking forward to it.

“Learn anything new?” He asks, as he stops scrolling through the tabs.

“I was only attempting to understand the origins of this Christmas tradition—” Jihoon explains, “But that led me to have more questions than answers. This festive celebration of yours is surprisingly complex. There are so many different ways to celebrate it, and the customs vary in different regions of the Earth. I do not feel like a single day is sufficient to practice all the traditions at once.”

Seungcheol chuckles under his breath, because of course, Jihoon being Jihoon, he’s got to analyse the hell out of everything. Even Christmas.

“Don’t worry Jihoon, you don’t have to take part in _all_ the traditions to celebrate Christmas.”

“But I may never have the opportunity to experience this tradition again.” Jihoon offers dejectedly. Like he's already thought about it. “I must take this opportunity to do as much as possible.”

Seungcheol pats his shoulder. “Not everything has to happen on Christmas day itself. People celebrate the days leading up to it too. The 25th of the month is for the presents and feasting and togetherness or whatever. Just pick a few traditions that interest you the most, and we’ll try and do them.”

Jihoon nods and turns back to the screen with renewed purpose.

Seungcheol lays a hand where Jihoon's shoulder meets his neck, all cool skin and the wrinkled edge of shirt collar, and squeezes. "Don't stay up too long, yeah."

"Or what?" Jihoon asks, not looking away from the screen.

“Or I’ll cancel Christmas.”

Jihoon looks up at him then, bottom lip quivering. His eyes start to water.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Seungcheol is quick to reassure. “But you need more sleep. And the data screen will burn your eyeballs out if you stare at it too long. It's like the sun that way."

Jihoon makes a noise that suggests he doubts the validity of that statement, or perhaps that he’s on first name terms with the sun and they’re firm friends and it would never do something so awful as burn his eyeballs. It’s hard to tell what Jihoon’s disagreeing about sometimes.  

Seungcheol lets his hands slide away, finds his way back to bed.

After a long minute the tiny clicks start up again and Seungcheol lets them lull him back to sleep.

 

* * *

**DAY: 792**

A piece of folded, yellow paper floats down onto his desk, makes Seungcheol spring up from where he'd been looking over the layout of the ventilation ducts on the third level.

He spins to find Jihoon is standing behind him, arms crossed, face impassive.

"What's this?" he asks, reaches for the slip of paper.

Jihoon brightens almost instantly and smiles, eyes shining with glee. “It is my Christmas strategy.”

“Christmas strategy?” Seungcheol repeats slowly. Sometimes conversations with Jihoon merely require periodic repetition of confusing phrases.

“Yes.” Jihoon nods. He crosses his arms behind his back and begins pacing the room as he talks, like he’s sharing his plan of attack. Plan of attack against _Christmas_. “I have conducted some preliminary research into this human festivity, and as per your suggestion, have narrowed down a list of Christmas activities I think will be most useful for me to experience in the coming days.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Seungcheol drawls.

This, when given thought, is unsurprising, given that Jihoon seems to approach everyday tasks with the same scientific precision he uses with all his _experiments_. Seungcheol wouldn’t be surprised if Jihoon has drawn up a timetable dividing up his free time between eating, Spongebob, and having a nap.

Nevertheless, his mouth twitches as he starts reading the list Jihoon’s prepared for him.

  * Participate in a snowball duel



_Christmassy, sure, but hardly achievable in fucking space._

  * Attend a Christmas Market



_Also unachievable._

  * Decorate a Christmas Tree



_That, at least, is a done deal._

  * Make Gingerbread Humans



_Seungcheol snorts messy laughter at that one._

  * Listen to Christmas Music



_As long as it’s not Michael Bublé, consider it done._

  * Attend a religious service



_Nope._

  * Watch a Christmas Movie



_Easy._

  * Consume the festive Galliformes



_Seungcheol’s going out on a limb here and guessing that’s the fancy science word for turkey._

  * Ice skate



_Not going to happen, unless….No. It’s not going to happen._

  * Kiss under the mistletoe



_………Woah._

Frowning, Seungcheol puts the list down on the desk.

“Jihoon,” He begins, mouth dry. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but we can’t do half the stuff on this list.”

“Why not?”  Jihoon replies waspishly.

Seungcheol sucks in a steadying breath, then grabs a pen and starts striking through the list. “Well—for starters, some of them are not physically possible up here in space. We’ll manage numbers 3,4,5,7 and 8, but we need to be on Earth if we want to see snow, or ice skate or shop the markets. And I’m not really… _religious_ , so I wouldn’t know the first thing about holding a religious service.”

Jihoon stops pacing. He’s quiet, but it's a focused quiet, like he's considering something. So Seungcheol waits. He looks down at his hands in his lap, picks absently at a hangnail.

“What about kissing under the mistletoe? Can we do that?” Jihoon finally says.

Seungcheol’s face flushes. He lets out an exasperated huff and whirls on Jihoon.

Jihoon is staring back with hopeful, honest-to-Christ puppy-dog eyes. His pupils are _huge_. 

It would take a much stronger man than Seungcheol to even consider resisting that look—but he’s pretty sure Jihoon doesn’t know what he’s asking for here.

“Well—I—uh.” Seungcheol stammers, face turning red. “I don’t think we _have_ any mistletoe onboard to do that.”

“Oh,” Jihoon sticks his lower lip out. “That’s disappointing. I was rather looking forward to that.”

“Yeah. Uhm—” Seungcheol fidgets with the curled edge of the paper nervously, “But it’s not a great tradition anyway. I mean, most people skip it, so you’re not going to miss out on much if we don’t.”

Jihoon shrugs affably. “If you really believe so—”

“I _do_. I really _do_!” Seungcheol says. And, okay, he probably could have been less enthusiastic about that. But only just.

* * *

"What’s the point of this?" Jihoon complains, and not for the first time. His voice holds the confused defence of someone who's being forced by his parents to speak to his great aunt once removed over Skype when they can't communicate in the same language. 

Seungcheol brushes the question off with a wave of his hand, “Look—we’re doing it and that’s final.”

Jihoon crosses his arms over his chest belligerently. “My research indicates that the act of secret Santa, requires more than two participants. Otherwise the secret is hardly one at all.”

“It’s tradition Jihoon. It’s important.”

Jihoon mumbles something about importance being a matter of opinion.

Seungcheol stops messing with the ship controls to glare at him over the head rest, "What was that?"

"Some of these traditions are stifling constructs," Jihoon grumbles, which wasn't what he'd said at all.

“Look—” Seungcheol huffs, spinning in his chair to face him. “I’m helping you with the list of things you want to do—we should at least do one thing _I_ want. And I want a Secret Santa.”

Jihoon makes his 'this cannot end well' face. “If you insist, I suppose I could maintain the secrecy of the act by cloning multiple versions of myself and have _them_ partake—”

“No. No. _No_.” Seungcheol shakes his head. “No clones. We’ve _talked_ about this.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes like Seungcheol is intentionally being difficult. “Why not? I plan on destroying them after Christmas is over.”

 _“No clones, Jihoon_.” Seungcheol says pointedly. “Just pick something you think I will like. I’ll pick something I think you will like, and we’ll wrap it up and give it to each other on Christmas Day.”

There’s the tiniest pause before Jihoon says, “Fine then. I would like ten paperclips, and a can of Coca-Cola. Wait, no—two cans!”

“You can’t _tell_ me what you want.” Seungcheol groans. “It has to be a surprise. I’ll pick something else for you.”

Jihoon makes a face like the idea is very unpleasant indeed. “What use is that? This arrangement is only mutually beneficial if we know and exchange things each of us require. Otherwise we could end up with things we have no need for.”

“That’s what Christmas is all about!” Seungcheol says, throwing his hands up in the air. “Getting shit you don’t need but smiling and thanking the person anyway. That’s Christmas!”

Jihoon snorts in a way that has been, yet again, disappointed but not surprised by humanity.

“This is why your species have failed to master the depth of space. You waste your time on foolish, useless traditions.”

Seungcheol cuts him an unimpressed look. “I knew you’d be a Christmas Grinch about _something_ —but I never thought it would be about this. For a lot of people, the presents are the best _thing_ about Christmas Jihoonie.”

Jihoon huffs like he's not sure if he should be insulted or not.

“I don’t know what Christmas Grinch means, but from the inflection in your voice I am deducing it’s not a favourable comparison. Instead of replying back rashly, I will conduct further research on this Christmas Grinch and return with my response.”

“I look forward to hearing it.” Seungcheol deadpans.

“Aha!” Jihoon says, pointing. “Sarcasm detected. I am on to you Choi Seungcheol. I refuse to be belittled with your primitive linguistic tool.”

“Oh, no. I’m so _scared_.” Seungcheol says—in a tone of voice that makes sure to tell Jihoon that it really, really isn't.

Jihoon offers a half-frown and tilts his head.

“There is nothing to be afraid of. I was merely pointing out that I could detect—wait a second!” He announces suddenly, pointing another accusatory finger. "You did it again. Cease using sarcasm against me, you _fiend_.”

Seungcheol resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Alright. I’m _sorry_.” He drawls.

Jihoon tosses him a sharp look, something that's layered with judgement and focus; Seungcheol can tell he is thinking really, really hard.

Finally he speaks, “That was sarcasm too—wasn’t it?”

“ _Noo_. Of course not.” Seungcheol says….. _sarcastically_. He resists the childish urge to stick his tongue out at him.

Jihoon doesn't have a _'you're being a dick,'_ face, or if he does Seungcheol hasn't seen it yet. No, he has the _'I'm so disappointed in you right now, you're solely responsible for lowering my faith in humanity'_ look.

“That’s it!” He growls, throwing his hands up in frustration, “I refuse to converse with you when you insist on this juvenile response. When you are ready to speak to me more maturely, I will be in the med-bay, working on your secret Santa gift.” He says, storming off with a snort of disgust.

“No clones!” Seungcheol yells after him.

* * *

**DAY: 793**

Seungcheol clears the error logs off the screen with the stab of a button.

 _That_ was a colossal waste of time, and he has only himself and his paranoia to thank once again, whoop-dee-fucking-doo. 

After three different types of diagnostics and even after ripping apart the control panel on the wall, there’s nothing to indicate a problem with the station’s perpetual spin system. He’ll just have to put it down to a software error for now, and hope there really _isn’t_ a fault here that causes the station to rotate uncontrollably while they’re sleeping.

Having his bones and soft tissue separated by intense centrifugal force is probably his least favourite way to die.

He sets to work reassembling the various components of the access panel, screw driver in one hand. He’s just begun reattaching wires where they’re supposed to go when Jihoon’s voice echoes over the comm system.

“Seungcheol. Please join me in the recreation area, I require your assistance.”

Seungcheol sighs, eyeing the detritus of his maintenance, wondering how quickly he’ll be able to put it all back together and how slapdash a job it’s going to be. It’s not as bad as it could be, he decides. At least he’s already got all the delicate parts back in place.

Hastily screwing plates and fixing wires back in place, Seungcheol is working on the final bolt when Jihoon’s voice calls out once again.

“Quickly. It’s an emergency!”

Seungcheol rather doubts that.

Jihoon’s definition of emergency involves such things as: _‘My soup is too hot’_ and _‘Your data pad ran out of charge and I want to watch things’_ and notably _‘I had a dream that I was a tiny pickle person and you were my caretaker’_ —but he sighs and shoves his seat back from the flight console anyway.

He really regrets teaching Jihoon how to use the onboard comm system, because now the Alien has the ability to get his attention without ever having to seek him out. It’s a real pain in the ass.

Climbing up to the main deck, Seungcheol ambles his way back to the rec room to find Jihoon sitting on the couch, looking very serious. Far more serious than anyone should be when staring at a Christmas stocking.

Seungcheol braces himself mentally as he approaches. “Alright—what’s the emergency _this_ time?”

The Alien looks up at him, then turns back to the stocking. “This sock is missing it’s pair. You led me to believe that all socks are paired, yet this sock is all alone. I have searched the station and I cannot find the matching pair. Why is this sock all alone Seungcheol?”

Seungcheol looks at him blankly for a minute, as if to say 'really, really?' Sometimes he has to remind himself to be  _so patient_  with Jihoon.

“It’s not a sock, Jihoon, it’s a stocking. A decoration—for _Christmas_.”

“I see.” Jihoon eyeballs the stocking with an expression of amused frustration, usually Seungcheol's the one responsible for that. “And it is designed to be alone?”

“Yup.” Seungcheol puffs out, then reaches over to pluck the stocking from Jihoon’s hand, holding it up by the hook. “Traditionally at Christmas, people would hang a stocking at the end of their bed, and Santa would leave presents inside.”

Jihoon makes a curious noise. “I thought the gifts were to be placed _under_ the tree.”

“Yeah—but Santa leaves smaller gifts in the stocking. Stocking fillers, like little toys and treats and stuff.”

Jihoon tips his head to the side, seemingly spellbound by the implied possibilities. “And will he be obligated to do this if we hang the stocking at the end of our bed?”

 _Great_ , Seungcheol thinks. Another thing he’s going to have to take care of. He makes a mental note to himself.

“Yes, Jihoonie.”

Jihoon makes a noise in his throat, something Seungcheol's heard before, though he's come to associate it with Jihoon's moments of self-congratulatory brilliance.

“There is only one stocking, and there are two of us. Are we to _share_ the treats?”

“Tell you what—” Seungcheol says, handing the stocking back, “You can have the stocking Jihoonie. Whatever Santa leaves inside it on Christmas Day, is all yours.”

Jihoon's smiles at him in that odd way he has, as if something marvellous has just happened to him. An awkward, crooked stretch of mouth, like his face isn't quite used to it. It's one of those little things that Seungcheol thinks makes him look reassuringly, ridiculously human.

* * *

“You know—” Seungcheol begins, tapping his foot impatiently. “It’s easier to decorate the tree if we put the lights on first.”

Jihoon raises a dubious eyebrow, but doesn’t actually look up. “Says whom?”

He’s kneeling by the power socket, staring at the flashing string of Christmas lights in his hand, as if mesmerized. The sight would have been not only endearing but highly amusing if not for the fact that Jihoon has been cooing at that same tangle of lights for nearly an hour without making any discernible progress.

Seungcheol scratches his head and bites back a sigh. At this rate they’re never going to get the tree decorated. He is briefly— _very briefly_ —tempted to turn off the damn fairy lights to prove a point. It's only the certainty that that will most definitely make Jihoon cry that stops him.

“Nobody specifically. I’m just talking from experience. The lights are fiddly and hard to arrange. If we wait till _after_ we decorate it, we have to navigate around all the decorations.”

“But I want to research them a while longer.” Jihoon protests.

Seungcheol chuckles, “I’m beginning to think you use the word _research_ , when you really mean _play_.”

Jihoon finally stops cooing at the Christmas lights to scowl at him. “No, I don’t. I am performing very important scientific research here. When I have concluded my study, the Universe will be indebted to my efforts.”

Seungcheol regards him indulgently.  “Just admit you want to play with the lights.”

Jihoon shoots him an annoyed look. Then a thoughtful one. Then a small smile. “I must admit—they _are_ very enchanting.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh and turns to survey his most recent attempts at interior decorating for the holidays.

It’s safe to say they’ve achieved Christmassy. _Amateur Christmassy_. Seungcheol has a vague idea of what festive holiday décor should look like, but the contents of the crate only went so far, so he’s tried to piece together some homemade decorations using the supplies around the station. Now the whole rec room is decked out with enough strings of light, glow sticks, paper garlands and fake snow it’s probably a fire hazard waiting to happen.

But hey, it’s only for a few days.

With only the tree left to spruce up, Seungcheol busies himself popping out the rest of the decorations from their packaging and threading the baubles with wire, until all that’s left is to unravel the long garland of golden tinsel.

“Tell you what Jihoonie.” Seungcheol begins thoughtfully, “If you give me the lights, I’ll give you this instead. It’s much shinier, don’t you think?”

Jihoon stops staring at the lights to look up at him, and when his eyes settle on the string of tinsel, they light up crazily. Seungcheol imagines it’s the same reaction one would get from waving red at an especially determined bull.

“Ooh.”

Seungcheol grins. “Yeah— _tinsel_.”

“ _Tinsel_.” Jihoon echoes in awe, abandoning the string of lights to pad over to where Seungcheol is waving the tinsel.  

It’s a relatively smooth exchange, and Seungcheol finally manages to get the lights untangled and wrapped around the tree in some semblance of order. He’s not sure what he can offer for Jihoon to surrender the tinsel at a later stage, but he figures he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. And if he doesn’t, the tree will look awesome without tinsel anyway. Sometimes it’s easier to give in to Jihoon’s strange and unreasonable whims than to try to fight them.

“You gonna help me decorate this thing or what?” Seungcheol says, hefting the box of decorations under his arm.

Jihoon isn't paying any attention. He’s too busy admiring his garland of tinsel, threading it between his fingers, rubbing it against his cheek, sniffing it— _rolling_ in it. He’s like a fucking cat.

“C’mon! You’re the one who dragged me away from work for this.”

Jihoon waves his fingers at him in a _'Shhh—I’m conducting research,'_ sort of way. Which really should annoy him far more than it does.

Shaking his head, Seungcheol grumpily strings a bead garland around the tree and starts hanging the ornaments half-heartedly. He runs out of things to hang sooner than he expects, so he’s left with one side of the tree completely bare. Deciding that it will take too much time, and effort, to remove some ornaments and spread them out—he wrangles the tree into the corner of the room to disguise the non-decorated half.

It’s mostly successful. Mostly.

His tree decorating protocol leaves a lot to be desired; the way he’s flung the baubles on blindly suggests the tree was decorated by an unsupervised toddler, though he doubts he would have managed better even with Jihoon’s help.

Happily, though, his bout of pessimism was all for nothing. As soon as he flicks the lights on, the entire tree transforms into a glowing wonder, disguising his haphazard decorating attempts completely. 

"Ooh," breathes Jihoon from somewhere behind him.  

Seungcheol grins over his shoulder at him. "Not bad eh?”

In a flash, Jihoon’s at his side, marvelling at the tree.  

He doesn’t launch himself into the branches to rip off all the ornaments though. Which is odd. Seungcheol gets the impression that usually when Jihoon finds something new and shiny he'll jump on it straight away with all the self-control of an excitable kitten.

Instead he just stands there— _caressing all the baubles._

“You’re a regular little magpie huh.” Seungcheol feels compelled to point out.

Jihoon cuts him a confused look.

“It’s a type of bird on Earth.” Seungcheol explains. “It’s attracted to shiny objects, and will often steal and hoard them in their nest.”

Jihoon wrinkles his nose, “That comparison seems rather insulting. I would never _steal_ anything. I am just appreciating how the light reflects off the surface of these ornaments, the dazzling colours they project.” He murmurs, delicately spinning a glittering bauble with a brush of his finger. “Such objects are rare and revered on my home planet.”

“I guess it’s the same on Earth, in a sense. The most coveted items are generally shiny in nature, like gold and diamonds and—” Seungcheol pauses mid-sentence when an idea occurs to him. “I think I just figured out what I’m going to get you for secret Santa.”

“Tinsel?” Jihoon asks, making his patented big  _please, oh please_  eyes.

“No.” Seungcheol laughs, pulling the tinsel garland from between Jihoon’s hands. He contemplates throwing it on the tree, then decides to loop it around Jihoon’s neck instead, like a scarf. “But you can absolutely keep that anyway. It looks better on you.”

The flash of Jihoon’s smile is the brightest thing in the room, outshining even the star on top of the tree.

* * *

**DAY: 794**

Seungcheol doesn't consider himself to be an especially fussy person. He realizes he’s probably alone in this opinion. To his mind, though, he just has things he likes and things he doesn't, the same as everyone else. He’s in favour of basketball, movies starring Denzel Washington, and peanut butter. He frowns on clowns, anything that disrupts his routine, and kale salad—and now he can add making gingerbread to that list.

It had all seemed so easy when his mom had walked him through his grandmother’s recipe. And when he was a kid, he'd help her mix the ingredients, and she'd rolled out the dough, and together they'd cut out the gingerbread men. He doesn't know what he’s done wrong with this batch—or how much flour he can keep adding before the cookies turn out as hard as rocks—but the gingerbread is still more goo than dough. Every time he tries rolling it out, it sticks to the counter, the rolling pin, his fingers, and anything else it can attach itself to.

His mom had offered to video chat with him to supervise, but that wasn’t an option with Jihoon floating in the background, so Seungcheol had insisted that he could handle it by himself. Clearly that had been an error in judgment. It’s been two hours since they started, and he doesn't have a single gingerbread man to show for himself. He dusts the dough with another liberal handful of flour and gives the rolling pin one more shot.

Jihoon comes around to peer over his shoulder when he’s elbow deep in gingerbread, a curious look on his face.

“The consistency of the dough does not seem correct.” He points out. In what he clearly thinks is his sensible and helpful voice.

Seungcheol glares at his ear.

“Don’t you think I know that!” He snaps back defensively. He refuses to pause his wrangling of the dough though. If he stops now, he feels sure that the dough will actually win and he refuses to let the gingerbread get the best of him.

Jihoon slips between him and the counter to poke at the dough. Then frowns when a large gloop of it sticks to his finger. Seungcheol’s certain the dough should not be in anyway gloopy at this point.  

"It's not as bad as it looks," He says, even more defensively.

Actually, it’s entirely possible that it’s worse than it looks.

After another liberal dusting of flour (very liberal), Seungcheol finally gets the dough rolled out, but it seems stiffer than he remembers when he'd made the cookies with his mother.

When he grabs a gingerbread man shaped cookie cutter, Jihoon's mouth turns up at the corners.

"May I help?"

"Sure. You want to cut out the gingerbread men?"

Jihoon nods eagerly, and Seungcheol hands over the cookie cutter.

Jihoon concentrates carefully, the tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips. When he's cut as many cookies as he can and arranges them on the baking sheets, Seungcheol gathers up the scraps of dough and rolls it out again. Somehow it seems easier this time around, and Jihoon goes to work with the cookie cutter once more. They finish up the rest in no time at all.

"We make a good team," Jihoon declares as Seungcheol pops the baking sheets into the double ovens.

Empirically this is true, so there really is no reason for Seungcheol to feel as ridiculously pleased by the comment as he does.

The scent of warm sugar and spice quickly fill the air. "Are they ready yet?" Jihoon says, looking hopeful and hungry.

"Please don’t get your hopes up Jihoonie. They could be awful," Seungcheol feels the need to warn him.

Jihoon shakes his head. "You are extremely resourceful and talented when it comes to culinary achievements. I am certain they will be excellent."

There is nothing particularly logical about that argument, cooking and baking are very different fields, but Seungcheol feels his cheeks pink at the compliment anyway.

When the oven's timer buzzes, he pulls the trays out, trying not to look as concerned as he feels.

Jihoon promptly volunteers, "Shall I test one?"

"You have to wait for them to cool," Seungcheol insists, but Jihoon has already plucked one gingerbread man off the tray and bitten his leg off. He chews thoughtfully before declaring, "The gingerbread humans are a success."

"Really?" Seungcheol’s voice lilts up hopefully.

"Indeed," Jihoon reiterates with his mouth full. He must have meant it too, because he reaches for another cookie.

Seungcheol bats his hand away. "If you eat them all now, we won’t have any left to ice."

"But I only tested one. If I do not test another, I cannot verify the validity of my results," Jihoon says sulkily.

Seungcheol can't argue with that. "Okay, but just one more."

Jihoon grins happily and snags his cookie.

 

* * *

Seungcheol has always been a seat-of-the-pants kind of decision-maker. You don't get plucked out of pilot training to work for the largest space fairing corporation in the world by playing it safe. He believes in taking chances the way other people believe in God or never paying retail prices. His gut hasn't led him astray yet, and so when it comes to picking a secret Santa gift for Jihoon—he decides to try something new.

Jihoon’s love of all things shiny has sparked an idea in his mind, an idea that involves the paperweight on his desk.

No—he’s not gifting Jihoon a paperweight, but rather the raw Moonstone gem hidden inside the rock.

He’d picked the rock up on a visit to Sri Lanka, a rushed training trip that took place on a mostly nocturnal schedule, and had been fascinated by its bluish adularescence when the light hit off it in just the right way.

He never found a use for it, and it’s not much to look at now; a palm sized rock with rough, misshapen edges; but with the right Dremel drill attachment, a little cutting, sanding and polishing—Seungcheol _knows_ he can shape it into something beautiful. Time permitting, he might even be able to fashion a simple silver chain too, so Jihoon can wear the Moonstone gem as a pendant.  

Best case scenario: Jihoon happy glows over it for a week, then reports back to his home world that Seungcheol is awesome.

Worst case scenario: Well….

It’s the thought that counts, _right_?

* * *

**DAY: 795**

Seungcheol’s moving quietly as he can in the blueish light of the room. He doesn't do more than drop an orange into the toe of Jihoon’s stocking, though, before Jihoon sighs, rolls over, and comes up on one elbow, blinking blearily.

“Seungcheol? What are you doing awake? And what are you doing with my stocking? Are you trying to—” He gasps quietly. “ _Steal_ it?”

"Of course, I’m not," Seungcheol says, exasperated but fond. "I’m putting things in it."

Jihoon licks his lips and rubs his head, mussing his hair even more. "I thought that was Santa’s job.”

Seungcheol waves a hand at him. "Santa’s entrusted me with the job—he’s too busy delivering presents to worry about filling stockings. Now close your eyes, go back to sleep and cooperate."

"Mm," says Jihoon, agreeably enough, and sinks back into the pillows to drowse.

Seungcheol drops another handful of small gifts into the open mouth of Jihoon’s stocking, listening to him stretch and sigh sleepily. He'd wanted to fill the stocking with the kinds of toys and sweets he remembered from when he was young enough to be granted such indulgences, but he’s a little limited with his provisions on the station. So he’s filling it with items he’s managed to squirrel away from the care packages he’s received over the years.

When he plops the tin of Cola inside, Jihoon springs upright in bed again, eyes wide. “Is that Cola? I heard a cola can. Can I have it now?”

Seungcheol holds a finger up to his lips. “No, you can’t. You can look at your stocking in the morning.”

“But it’s technically morning _now_.” Jihoon whines, pout evident, even in the dark.

"I swear to _God_ Jihoon, if you don’t go back to sleep—I’m pitching this stocking out the air lock," Seungcheol says darkly, but he can't help smiling as he shoves the Cola can in deeper, so he can fit a small pouch of chocolate coins at the top.

Jihoon huffs and plants himself face-down on the pillow, in his customary sulking fashion.

“That should do it,” Seungcheol says at last, hooking the oversized candy cane over the top of the stocking and wedging a tiny bottle of Bailey’s alongside it.

When he flops down on his side of the bed, Jihoon turns his head to look at him. Seungcheol doesn't even know how he can still see his eyes, but he can. They should have looked blurry and coloured out in the darkness, but he can still tell that they're the brightest blue he’s ever seen.

“Go back to sleep.” Seungcheol orders.  

Jihoon ignores him, scooting closer until he can wedge himself in the crook of Seungcheol’s arm. “I can’t. I’m too excited.”

“Yes, well—that’s to be expected. It _is_ Christmas. It’s an excitable time of year and you’re an excitable person at the best of times.” Seungcheol says.

He burrows a bit further under the covers and considers having another run at sleeping. But Jihoon’s wide awake now, and poking him in the cheek in a way that won’t be ignored.

“Are you not excited too?”

“No. Not really.” Seungcheol explains around a jaw-cracking yawn.  At Jihoon’s downcast expression, he offers a careless shrug. “Those days are long gone for me. As you get older, you lose that sense of magic and wonder. Part of being an adult is having less and less things to appreciate in the same way. But I get it, you know—I remember what it felt like. On Christmas eve, I used to stay up late at night with my brother Seungmin. We’d pretend to sleep, but we’d actually be reading stories with a torch under the bedsheets, waiting for Santa.”

“Stories?” Jihoon gives him a considering look. “What kind of stories?”

Seungcheol, almost half-asleep, rouses himself enough to say, “Oh just the standard cliched Christmassy ones, filled with wacky shenanigans and dramatic misunderstandings that all magically get resolved on Christmas Eve.”

“Will you tell me a story?” Jihoon asks in a hushed voice, his eyes big.

“What, now?” Seungcheol says, rubbing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Can this wait till later? I’m running on empty here.”

“Please? There are so many traditions I wish to experience and not enough time.” Jihoon asks, with that look Seungcheol can’t refuse.

Seungcheol sighs and leans over to grab his data-pad off the bedside table. Under different circumstances, he probably would have told Jihoon to fuck off. But he’d decided sometime in the wee hours of the night that he would move heaven and hell to give Jihoon the happy holiday he deserves. If that means reading him a story at half past bastard, then so be it.

Swiping his data-pad open, he does a quick search for the most popular Christmas stories, and settles for the first one that pops up.

_“Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”_

“Mouse?” Jihoon interjects, sounding honestly puzzled.

“Oh, it’s just an animal we have back on Earth. It’s like a small, pesky rodent.” Seungcheol offers, when it seems he needs an explanation.

Jihoon’s face lights up. “Rodent—as in a _rat_? Like the rat from _Ratatouille_?”

Seungcheol can’t help but laugh at him then, because Jihoon remembers so many ridiculous things that aren't important until they  _are_.

“Yes—exactly. I _knew_ you’d love that movie.”

Jihoon’s mouth quirks up in a strange little smile; he seems pleased about that. “That’s nice. I’m glad rats celebrate Christmas too.”

Seungcheol ruffles his hair fondly before continuing.

_“The stockings where hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that--”_

“What’s a Chimney?” Jihoon pipes in suddenly.

Sometimes Seungcheol wishes Jihoon would just ask him normal questions, like a normal person. But then, he wouldn't be Jihoon if he did.

“It’s a ventilation system that some older human habitats used to have when they relied on fires to heat rooms and create ambience. It allowed hot air and smoke to escape safely.” Seungcheol explains evenly, _patiently_.

“Really?” Jihoon looks sceptical. “A fire—in one’s home. Sounds _pre-historic.”_

Seungcheol blows out a sigh. “Most people have upgraded their homes now. This is just a really old poem, and I don’t think it would have the same ring to it if people hung their stockings by the _solar panels_ with care.”

Jihoon makes a 'hmm' noise in his throat, as if he isn't entirely convinced, but motions for Seungcheol to continue reading.

_“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar-plums danced—”_

“Sugar Plums?” Jihoon interjects once more, turning his head towards him curiously.

The data-pad dims by the time Seungcheol can think of an appropriate response. “You know—this poem’s going to take all night to get through if you keep interrupting me every five seconds.”

Jihoon smiles sheepishly. “Sorry—please continue.”

 _“And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my—"_  Seungcheol stops short when Jihoon breathes in sharply, like he’s thinking about interrupting again but trying not to. “Before you say anything, I don’t know what fucking _Kerchief_ is.” He says dryly.

Jihoon clamps his mouth shut, but Seungcheol doesn’t think for a minute that the interruptions are over.

Coming to a decision, he swipes the data pad shut and drops it on the mattress.

“Tell you what—how about you go ahead and open your stocking.”

“Really?” Jihoon asks, voice a high squeak of excitement.

He’s is even more bounce-off-the-walls happy then Seungcheol had imagined.

“Yeah—yeah, go fetch it.”

Jihoon bounds off the bed to grab his stocking, glowing like crazy. Just as Seungcheol thinks it’s safe to rest his head on the pillow and catch some shut eye, the petite alien’s plunking down on top of him.

“Don’t sleep now Seungcheol. Don’t you want to see what I’ve got in my stocking?” He gasps, like he’s already forgotten Seungcheol’s the one who filled it oh, say— _ten minutes ago._

“Of course.” Seungcheol says, with all the cheerfulness he can muster.

He moves to sit up on the bed, watching as Jihoon pulls out of his stocking—a candy cane; an orange; a deck of cards; a Chocolate reindeer; a pair of Christmassy socks; some chocolate coins; a Rubik’s cube; a miniature bottle of Baileys; a tube of Smarties; a new toothbrush; a box of multicoloured paperclips; a can of Cola; a box of chocolate coated peanuts; a packet of bubble gum; a joke book and a Groot bobble head.

“It’s just like the one you have displayed on the flight deck!” Jihoon grins, rediscovering the secret awesomeness of bobble heads.

It's a good day for him, clearly.

“Yeah. An exact replica of it in fact.” Seungcheol smirks, easing himself back down on the bed.

Twenty seconds after he’s shut his eyes, there's the faint crinkling sound of a wrapper being opened and a quiet noise of discovery, and he thinks maybe that's Jihoon suitably distracted for the rest of the morning.

"This chocolate has nuts inside," Jihoon says, and Seungcheol's not entirely sure if that's surprise or disapproval.

Though something crunches a moment later, and Jihoon follows it up with a quiet ‘Ooh’, so if it was a surprise then at least it was a  _good_  one.

“Chocolate makes me thirsty. I’m going to have my Cola now.” Jihoon says next, which makes enough alarm bells ring in Seungcheol’s head that he’s swearing and flailing his way upright.

“No—you’re fucking not. It’s caffeine and I’m not having you jumping off the walls while I’m trying to—” Seungcheol pauses mid-lecture.

Jihoon’s wounded, wide eyed expression goes a long way in making him feel like an adult and a Grade A asshole on Christmas morning.

 _Jihoon’s first Christmas morning_ —he reminds himself.

“You know what Jihoon,” he reconsiders, pulling the tab on the Cola lid. “It’s Christmas. You can have whatever you want.”

Jihoon dimples like a cherub as he takes his first sip.

* * *

**CHRISTMAS DAY**

Seungcheol’s up at 7am—because it might be Christmas Day, but he’s still on the clock technically, still got work to do despite a meagre three hours of sleep.

Jihoon’s still asleep, curled up on the bed and clutching the remnants of his stocking possessively. Seungcheol leaves him to sleep a while longer while he performs some routine tasks, because he _knows_ his Alien’s had even _less_ sleep—what with the excitement of his stocking, and his 3am caffeine fix and the _‘Seungcheol, look, look—this cube! It rotates and has many colours’_ sometime around 5.30am.

Jesus, it's going to be a long day.

By 10am, all of Seungcheol’s routine maintenance jobs are complete, and he heads to the kitchen to make a start on Christmas dinner. He flips through the entertainment panel on the wall until he finds some acceptable Christmas music and adjusts the volume to play softly in the background while he preps the turkey.

He’s sliding a tray of roast potatoes in the oven when Jihoon finally emerges, looking exceptionally sleep rumpled and adorable.

“Good morning Jihoonie—Merry Christmas.”

“Froehlich Weihnachten,” Jihoon says, blinking and yawning.

Seungcheol pauses part-way through removing his oven mitts to squint at him. “ _What_?”

“It’s Merry Christmas in your human language, _German_. I thought it fitting, seeing as many of the Christmas traditions we’re partaking in originated from there.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The tree, the mulled wine, the gingerbread, the advent Calendar, Sankt _Nikolaus_ —many of the staples of modern Christmas traditions originated in 16th Century Germany.” Jihoon tells him, in that special 'I'm giving you obvious pieces of information because I like you,' tone he has.

“Huh.” Seungcheol pulls the oven mitts off and tosses them on the counter carelessly. “I didn’t know that.”

Jihoon smiles in that— _see, learning can be fun_ —way that's just ever so slightly annoying. 

“Well. Now you do. I’ve learnt a great many number of things researching this tradition of yours. And _frankly_ , I’m surprised a human of your level of intelligence would believe in some of the non-sensical myths and fabrications of this holiday.”

Seungcheol frowns, not quite understanding.  “Are we talking about Santa Claus?”

The expression Jihoon turns on him is focused, and silent, and ever so slightly terrifying in a way Seungcheol can't quite name.

“Of course not. Anyone would be a _fool_ not to believe in Santa. Santa is very real.” He says firmly.

This from the man who regularly declares himself a genius—Seungcheol _has_ to grin.

“So, you still believe in him, huh?” Seungcheol allows because everything else coming out of his mouth would be sarcasm right now and, well. No.

“Of course. All my preliminary data supports the fact that he lives in the North Pole with Mrs Claus and his gravity defying reindeer, where he employs a taskforce of elves to assist him in mass production of toys. It makes perfect sense.”

Seungcheol scratches his chin, not quite following. “Then what Non-sensical myths are you talking about?”

Jihoon rolls his eyes like the answer should be obvious. “ _Jesus_ , of course.”

“Oh. _Right_.” Seungcheol huffs surprised amusement.

“Honestly.” Jihoon titters, “Human religious practices are baffling. How can a child, born thousands of years ago—”

“Jihoonie—” Seungcheol interrupts quickly, grabbing Jihoon be the shoulders before he spins off in one off his conversational tangents. “I’m gonna stop you there. Christmas isn’t about Jesus—it’s about Turkey, and trees, and presents and watching Die Hard re-runs and eating your weight in chocolate. At least, that’s what my Christmases are about.”

Jihoon looks confused and he looks irritated at being confused. He now obviously thinks he's failed some sort of important social interaction exam. Seungcheol already knows he's the sort of person who finds failure crushingly difficult to accept.

“What about Santa? Where does he fit in your Christmas?” Jihoon asks, with that edge of cautious accusation he's so good at.

“I don’t really believe in him.” Seungcheol says honestly. He watches Jihoon’s mouth pull down at the edge and quickly adds, “But he can be part of your Christmas if you like.”

“Well—when’s he coming?”

Seungcheol winces. “He’s not coming, Jihoon. I’m sorry.”

“Because I failed to leave out some milk and cookies and a carat for Rudolph?” Jihoon asks, plaintive enough to make Seungcheol’s heart clench with emotion. 

Seungcheol carefully takes hold of both his arms. “No, no. It’s not because of that. It’s because—Santa Claus kind of—can’t breathe in space. So he doesn’t venture far from Earth.”

“I see.” Jihoon murmurs. He sounds like he's trying not to be upset about it. “I was looking forward to meeting him—I had many questions.”

“I’ll bet you did.” Seungcheol grins. “Look—you can always write him a letter and send it to the north pole.”

Jihoon seems to consider that for a moment. 

 ****“How will I ensure it reaches him? As you said, he is a very illusive man when he wants to be, and I have been unable to ascertain his location.”

“Just you right the letter, and I’ll make sure he gets it." Seungcheol says with a magnanimous wave of his hand. "I know a guy, who knows a guy—who knows one of his elves. He'll make sure he gets it. Anyway—Santa isn’t here—but that doesn’t mean you can’t have presents.” He says, handing Jihoon a neatly wrapped parcel, complete with a bow and ribbon.

Jihoon frowns at the gift.

“Why is it not under the Christmas tree—as tradition dictates?” He says seriously, like opening his gift before it sits under the tree will be catastrophic, possibly for all of mankind.

“Fine.” Seungcheol huffs, stomping over to the tree and setting the parcel underneath. Only to pick it up again a second later and hand it to Jihoon. “There—Merry Christmas Jihoon. Hope you like it.”

Jihoon turns the package in his hand, regarding it as warily, as if it contains a _bomb_. He lights up from head to toe not a second later, practically vibrating with a happy glow. 

“It’s beautiful. Thank you Seungcheol.” He says, so damn earnestly. 

Seungcheol eyeballs him, “What? You haven’t even opened it yet! That’s just the wrapping paper!”

Jihoon's radiant glow snuffs out like a candle. He looks on thoughtfully.

“Oh.” He murmurs, caressing the shiny red wrapping paper like _that’s_ the gift.

Seungcheol sighs. He _knew_ he should have just wrapped it in a brown paper bag. Brown paper bags are not distracting.

Jihoon proceeds to torment Seungcheol as he starts to unwrap the parcel in an exceedingly slow and careful fashion, like he plans on keeping the packaging to moon over later. Finally, he opens the box and looks inside, then glances up, eyes wide.

“It’s a necklace. A Moonstone pendant.” Seungcheol explains after a drawn-out moment of silence.

Jihoon blinks at him, then casts his eyes back on the necklace in the box.

Seungcheol had worked painstakingly all week to cut and shape the rock into a smooth tear-drop shape, and his efforts were rewarded when the dull white slate caking the rock had given way to the iridescent, silvery-blue stone underneath.

It's beautiful, otherworldly glow reminds him, inexplicably, of Jihoon, except the Moonstone is not asking him a million questions and demanding hot chocolate. Of course, if he were a true romantic, he would say that the Moonstone pales in comparison to Jihoon’s glowing beauty.

But he isn’t—or, he would never admit to it—so he doesn’t.

Instead of threading the Moonstone through a silver chain like he’d originally planned—he decided to save time _and_ maintain the gems natural shape by opting for a more intricate wire wrap to suspend it.  

He’s pretty satisfied with the end result, although it’s Jihoon’s approval he craves right now and Jihoon doesn’t seem to be reacting much at all.

He’s quiet, and Jihoon’s _never_ quiet, and Seungcheol was afraid of this, afraid that his amateur attempts at jewellery making wouldn’t meet Jihoon’s ridiculous high standards, so he adds hastily, “It was my first time making Jewellery!”

Jihoon runs the tip of his index finger across the belly of the stone, “You—you _made_ this?”

Seungcheol puffs out his chest proudly. “Uh, in a sense. I can’t exactly step out to the shops and buy you something like normal people do on Earth, so I used what I had. I picked up the raw form of the stone from a trip back on Earth, and I used my tools to cut and shape the rock into a more _workable_ shape. I was afraid I’d damage the stone by drilling a hole for the chain, so I designed the wire wrapping to suspend it instead. The gem’s a Moonstone. It’s supposed to symbolise balance and divinity, and some wackos back on Earth believe it can _soothe_ emotions and has healing properties. I don’t really believe in any of that crap—but I thought it was.... _pretty_ …..and the way the light refracts of the different layers is pretty captivating and ….ethereal—like _you_.”

Something flickers deep within Jihoon's eyes. “You think I look pretty and ethereal?”

“Well—yeah.” Seungcheol says, awkward. He deliberately fixes his eyes on the pendant and says, “I mean—have you _seen_ you? What with the blue eyes and white hair and general inhuman glowing abilities. You’re pretty much the definition of ethereal and—” He swallows thickly. “ _Pretty_.”

He risks a look at Jihoon.

Jihoon is staring at him, with an expression serious enough to put Seungcheol on high alert. 

He’s regretting going out on a limb here. He should have just given Jihoon a roll of tinfoil and saved himself this awkwardness. At least tinfoil would have guaranteed a positive reaction.

He clears his throat—anything to break the silence—and says, “If you like I can--"

“No,” Jihoon cuts him off, clutching the box as if he’s afraid Seungcheol is going to jerk it away. “It’s mine!”

Warmth floods through Seungcheol, and to keep himself from turning into a giant sticky pot of treacle, he grins and says, “I wasn’t going to take it away. I was just going to help you put it on.”

Jihoon’s defensive posture eases slightly. “Put it— _on_?”

“It’s a pendant. You’re supposed to wear it around your neck.” Seungcheol explains. “Here—let me.”

Hesitantly, he fishes out the pendant from the box, then steps behind Jihoon and drapes it around his neck. The pendant is just long enough for the stone to nestle intimately in the hollow of Jihoon’s throat, and it’s adularescence seems to intensify, cloudy blue sheen taking on a luminous teal glow when it rests below Jihoon’s collarbones.  

There's a strange expression on Jihoon's face when Seungcheol steps back around to face him.  He looks lost, confused, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Say something.” Seungcheol adds, desperately, because this new quiet Jihoon is starting to freak him out.

“I don’t know the human word to describe how I am feeling.” Jihoon says simply.

Seungcheol stares at him, a pinch between his eyebrows. “Is it a good or bad feeling?”

Jihoon gawps at him, as if totally flummoxed. “It’s good, of course! You have gifted me something truly rare and beautiful. Something I have _never_ been gifted before, and you made it specifically for me and my tastes. There is no word in your language, or any human language in fact, to describe my current emotional state. The closest is—”

Jihoon proceeds to yelp like a dolphin on an acid trip.

“What the fuck!” Seungcheol hisses, covering his ears.

Jihoon stops screeching only to say, “That is how your gift makes me feel Seungcheol. Extreme happiness!”  

“Okay, okay—you like the gift, message received. Please stop screaming.” Seungcheol laughs, the last of the tension draining out of his body.

Jihoon thankfully stops screaming, then makes a noise as if he's just remembered something and rushes back into the bedroom. When he returns, he's holding a small parcel, and presses it into Seungcheol’s hands, saying—“I suppose you’ll want this now.”

Seungcheol feels the weirdest clenching sensation just below his diaphragm as he studies the parcel, because Jihoon’s attempt at wrapping is the cutest shit he’s ever seen. The parcel is the size of his palm, but Jihoon seems to have used an entire fucking roll of Sellotape to secure the damn thing. He’s tacked a bunch of paperclips on it too, like that would make the plain white A4 paper he’s used to wrap it with, more _festive_ or something.

“Stellar job with the wrapping Jihoonie.” Seungcheol chuckles.

Jihoon pouts. "I don't have much experience with wrapping things, I was attempting something creative."

Of all the phrases you should probably worry about coming out of Jihoon's mouth 'I was attempting something creative,' has to be somewhere near the top. Though the parcel hasn't tried to burn a hole through the ship’s hull yet, or clone him while he sleeps.

Seungcheol's going to consider that a plus.

“It’s uh, very creative.” He says, ruffling Jihoon’s hair. “Well done.”

Jihoon looks up at him, disappointment writ on his face.

Seungcheol doesn’t understand it, can’t stand seeing it.

“Ah, _hey_ —what’s with the sad face?”

“I fear what I have got you is dull in comparison to what you have gifted me. I don’t think you will like it.” Jihoon says, shaking his head sadly.

“Don’t say that—I’m sure I’ll love it.” Seungcheol says, unwrapping his present with an appropriate level of exuberance, pleased smile fixed in place.

The endless Sellotape and paper give way to reveal a nondescript box. With a steadying breath and a mental script for grateful gushing at the ready, he pulls off the top of the box.

His Stepford smile drops away like a stone.

Nestled in between folds of paper, is a small metal cylinder.

Seungcheol frowns at it a minute, and then asks, “Uhm—What is it?”

“It is a tissue regenerative diode implant of my own design. Once connected to your central nervous system it will alter the rate at with your body tissue ages and enhances its regenerative properties. Given the right conditions, it should allow you to live indefinitely.”

Seungcheol’s smile spreads of its own accord. “Wait—what? Did—did you just gift me _immortality_?”

Jihoon sighs. “Yes. It’s a very dull present. I am sorry. But my species lives for an exceptionally long time compared to yours, and the thought of your departure from this plane of existence saddens me.” He murmurs.  

He looks so open, a touch nervous, that it takes every ounce of Seungcheol's self-control not to crush him into a hug right there, or possibly melt into the floor. He's not sure which would be worse for his ego.

After carefully returning the regenerative cylinder _whatever_ to its box, he reaches over to give Jihoon an awkward one-armed hug.

“Thank you Jihoonie. It’s a very sweet gift.”

Jihoon smiles up at him. “Would you like me to implant it now?”

“Ahh—how about later. Maybe after dinner.” Seungcheol hedges, squirrelling the box away.

* * *

_“Seungcheol—help._ I am in pain.” Jihoon groans.

He’s lying on his side on the couch, head pillowed on the bend of one elbow, his other hand slung over his eyes. He does look like he’s in pain, but there’s not much Seungcheol can do for him now. He can’t risk poisoning his Alien biology with any human medication, so he settles for stroking his hair soothingly—hoping it will help ease the discomfort.

“It’s okay—shhh. I’m sorry.”

“Apology unaccepted. It hurts.” Jihoon says, in tones of agony.

Seungcheol has honestly heard men sound less pained after taking a shot to the kneecap. He takes a seat on the edge of the couch and drifts a hand up Jihoon’s side gently. “I know—I know. But I did tell you to pace yourself Jihoonie.”

Jihoon makes another very small, very pained sound. “I could not. And now I am suffering the consequences. I am _dying_.”

Seungcheol fights back a bark of hysterical laughter, “Drama queen.”

Jihoon peeks out from under his arm to frown at him. “Why are you not also in pain?”

“Cause I’m bigger than you. My metabolism is faster, and maybe—just maybe, because I didn’t eat my weight in roast potatoes.” Seungcheol offers.

For such a skinny bastard, Jihoon sure can pack away a truly impressive amount of food. And now he’s making sure the entire Galaxy knows that’s he’s suffering for it. Of course he wouldn’t listen to Seungcheol earlier when he told him to _put down the fucking fork_ , too busy making pornographic faces over every mouthful to take much notice.

There’s really no reasoning with him sometimes.

“But they were so delicious, I could not help myself— “ Jihoon mutters. He heaves an enormous, put-upon sigh and lifts the hem of his T-shirt. “Now look what’s happened,”

His shoulders and elbows and hipbones are all slimness and sharpness, but his stomach has the most delicious little curve to it now, incongruous and inviting.

“Woah,” Seungcheol leans over and rests his hand over the slight protrusion there, unfamiliar and strangely fascinating. “That’s—that’s one hell of a food baby.”

Jihoon’s face twists into an indignant expression that Seungcheol interprets to mean:  _What the fuck did you just say?_

“A food baby.” Seungcheol repeats, rubbing a gentle circle against his belly. “When you eat so much it makes you look _pregnant_.”

“Oh.” Jihoon smiles and catches his lower lip between his teeth. He rests his own hand over the small swell of his stomach lightly, then looks up at Seungcheol through his lashes. “It’s your baby.”

Seungcheol actually chokes on air because _what the fuck._

It takes him a minute to orientate himself and point an accusing finger at Jihoon. “Listen, I know Christmas is all about miraculous conceptions, but _you’re_ the one who insisted on seconds. I just cooked. That’s not my baby.”

There’s a sneaky light dancing in Jihoon's eyes that suggests he knows  _exactly_  what he’s making Seungcheol think, and enjoying the hell out of it. It fades a moment later when he shifts on the couch and the effort to move that little bit has him groaning in discomfort.

“I’m so full. How do I make the pain stop?” He whines.

“With your hummingbird metabolism, it’ll be gone before you know it. But you can always sleep it off.” Seungcheol tells him, smoothing down his T-shirt.

“We have not yet reached the allocated period of sleep. It seems illogical to sleep now, when there are so manty traditions left to partake in.” Jihoon says flatly, though he seems perfectly content to drowse on the couch.

Seungcheol shrugs, “Have a nap then. It’s Christmas tradition to nap after dinner—helps you digest.”

Jihoon considers this.

"Okay," he decides at length. Then: “But you must carry me to the bed, seeing as I am currently incapacitated.”

Seungcheol would have to be terribly inattentive not to see that suggestion coming a mile away.

“I must—must I?” He echoes.

Jihoon lifts his brows in agreement, a smile curving his lips. “Yes.” He even has the audacity to add, “Take responsibility for the food baby you have impregnated me with.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, but resigns himself to the inevitable and scoops Jihoon off the couch.

* * *

Even though he’s eaten approximately his own body weight in plate-sized portions and his digestive system should be protesting any sort of movement, Jihoon can only keep still for so long.

He naps for an hour, then emerges with his crumpled Christmas ‘Research Strategy’ list—several of the points already crossed off.

“We must watch a Christmas Movie—or my research will not be complete.”

Seungcheol, who has spent the better part of the last hour cleaning the kitchen, glares at him balefully. He’s running on 3 hours of sleep and has soap suds in his hair and wants nothing more than a hot shower and a handjob—but the Christmas Tree in the corner is giving off a cheerful glow, and he’s had enough to drink that lazing companionably in front of a movie or two feels perfectly entertaining.

So with a bowl of microwaved popcorn, they retire to the rec room to watch the best Christmas Movie of all time. Die Hard.

“Forget what anyone else has told you. Forget what you might even have read online. Die Hard is the _undisputed_ , best Christmas Movie of all time, okay.” Seungcheol tells Jihoon during the opening credits.

Jihoon wrinkles his nose disagreeably.  “My research into the topic suggested that Home Alone—”

“No.” Seungcheol interjects sternly, because he refuses to allow Jihoon to watch it, refuses to give his Alien any crazy ideas about how to booby-trap the station with tarantulas and paperclips and mugs of hot cocoa.

Home Alone is a veritable _disaster_ waiting to happen.

“As you wish. I cede to your good judgement on this occasion,” Jihoon says, like he's some kind of magnanimous overlord instead of  _really obnoxious_.

“Good.” Seungcheol nods, ramping up the volume, and before long they’re settled on the couch, a foot apart, making fun of Alan Rickman’s accent.

Twenty minutes into the movie, Seungcheol almost sends the bowl of popcorn flying when Jihoon climbs into his lap without preamble.  

“You’re like a cat. You know that?” Seungcheol tells him, as the Alien presses his nose into his neck, hunting for warmth. “Cat’s do this—they just climb into people’s laps and expect warmth and attention. You’re an alien cat.”

“Hmm,” Jihoon murmurs into his throat, where his face is pressed contentedly. He sounds amused. “I have studied cat’s briefly in my analysis of human/animal interactions. Cats are intelligent and resilient creatures on Earth, and have been worshipped as God’s by many ancient human civilisations. Therefore—I approve of this comparison.”

“So, will you purr if I pet you I wonder?” Seungcheol suggests, and he can't resist grinning at the thought.

Jihoon surprises him by smiling back, one soft curve of mouth, “My species do not possess the correct physiology to vocalize a purr. But, you are welcome to _try_.”

Seungcheol doesn’t really know what to say to that. So eventually he starts stroking a hand over the back of Jihoon’s head, the hair short on the nape of his neck. There’s no purring, of course, but there’s plenty of glowing.

 _Happy_ , golden yellow glowing.

Possibly the advanced Alien species _equivalent_ of purring? Yeah, definitely. 

Seungcheol snacks on a handful of popcorn and realizes that a) He’s got a glowing Alien in his lap, nuzzling him b) he’s totally okay with it.

So fucking weird.

"I don't understand," Jihoon says quietly, and for a minute Seungcheol’s not sure what he’s talking about, but Jihoon's watching the TV.

"Oh, he's trying to get the cop’s attention. He did that on purpose, to get the police to the building," Seungcheol offers.

Jihoon nods, like he understands perfectly now.

Seungcheol thinks, hell, maybe TV is educational, Jihoon is learning how to stop a terrorist attack on a high rise building after all.

 

* * *

By the time the credits of the movie roll, they’ve both missed Bruce Willis saving the world by falling asleep.

Seungcheol must have moved in his sleep, because he’s stretched lengthways on the couch now, with Jihoon sprawled over him, doing his best impersonation of a night light. Seungcheol rolls out from under him carefully to turn the entertainment panel off and carry the empty bowl of popcorn back into the kitchen.

When he returns, Jihoon sitting upright. He’s still half asleep, squinting out across the room at him, clothes skewed to hell and back from his nap.  

"Dude, come here," Seungcheol says with a laugh and he pulls Jihoon up by the loose edge of his shirt, which he pushes back into Jihoon's pants with a snort of amusement.

"You're gonna have to work out how to fix your own clothes eventually. Can’t have you walking around like a little Alien hobo.”

He fixes the swing of his Jihoon's t-shirt, watches the Alien watch him with that curious, intrigued expression. Like everything is so damn fascinating.

Finally, Seungcheol brushes the fringe from Jihoon’s face, pats down his hair where his errant locks are poking out in a million different directions.

It occurs to Seungcheol, all at once. That this really isn't the sort of thing you do for another guy. This isn't the sort of thing Seungcheol does for anyone. Or maybe even should. There's a line here and he's crossed it, without even thinking about it, and it doesn't matter that Jihoon doesn't see it, that he reacts as if it's not even there. Like it's not important.

Jihoon's not the only one that's been pushing at someone else's personal space. Seungcheol's been pushing too, pushing where Jihoon lets him, where he never refuses him, or protests, or tries to stop him.

Like it's his right.

Like he _belongs_ there.

And God help him, sometimes Seungcheol thinks maybe he wants to belong there.

He forces himself to pull his hands away, and takes a steadying breath, before dimming the lights in the rec room. He turns to lead the way out of the room, only for Jihoon to halt him with fingers around his wrist.

“Uh—something wrong?” Seungcheol asks, eyebrows jumping with surprise.

He can’t be sure, but he think’s Jihoon is blushing.

“Nothing. I just wanted to thank you Seungcheol. You have worked tirelessly to include me in this tradition of yours, and it has been a very pleasant experience for me. I know I am not the easiest person to cohabitate with, yet you continuously make adjustments to your life to provide me comforts. I—I appreciate it, truly.”

Seungcheol feels a decidedly warm and fuzzy sensation fill his heart—not that he’ll ever share that particular cliché out loud, but the soft happiness is there, nonetheless.

“You’re welcome Jihoonie. I’m glad you enjoyed it, and hey, maybe you can visit Earth one day and finish everything on your list.” He points out, and then wonders why, because suggesting Jihoon visits Earth is almost certainly a bad idea. “We can go to a Christmas market, and we can go ice skating and have a snow ball fight—”

There’s a pause, where Seungcheol realises he automatically said ‘we’ instead of ‘you’, and panics a little, before chancing a look at Jihoon.

Jihoon’s smiling slightly, completely unconcerned. “—and kiss under the mistletoe?” He adds curiously.

Seungcheol decides that's pretty much an opening if he's ever heard one, so he should stop being a bitch and just take it.

“We don’t need mistletoe to kiss Jihoon.” He says, in a voice that sounds rougher than usual.

Jihoon's eyes widen slightly in bewilderment, but then he frowns, a deep frown that looks conflicted, uncomfortable. “The tradition explicitly states that we _do_.”

"True but, some traditions are _worth_ breaking." Seungcheol stops, not entirely sure if he's even making sense, or how to phrase what he wants to say. "We could kiss—if you wanted to try it."

It sounds nothing like the offer it was supposed to be. Strange and awkward, like he's forced to leave the words out there but doesn't care about the answer.

Which he does. But he thinks he's gotten far too good at pretending he doesn't care about things when he does.

Jihoon looks honestly surprised, but by the time Seungcheol's re-thought whether it's a good idea or not he's already stepping closer, within arm’s reach.

“I want to.” He says quietly, and Seungcheol loses all his breath in one go.

It takes him three tries to get it back.

"You ever kissed someone before? On the lips?" Seungcheol asks.

He's fully expecting an 'of course,' some sort of amusement, maybe a dig about how Jihoon’s species invented kissing and how they’ve evolved to kiss with their minds or something and how swapping saliva is grotesque and unnecessary. Instead Jihoon shakes his head, one careful movement that seems oddly innocent.

It throws Seungcheol for a second. And then it occurs to him exactly how  _other_  Jihoon is.

No matter how relaxed he looks in his oversized regulation flight suit, he's still feeling his way around their world. He honestly seems at his least mystifying when Seungcheol just treats him like a person. Just some random person who's waltzed onto his station and is confused about things and doesn't quite know how to be human. That, at least, is easier than thinking about him as an Alien wanting to experience things for the first time.

"Alright," Seungcheol decides, He takes another step, closer, and lays a hand, strangely clinically, on Jihoon's shoulder. "I’m going to kiss you okay, but don’t bite me."

The Alien’s expression is suddenly intent, like he's watching everything, waiting with a curious air of expectation.

Seungcheol's not sure if that makes it easier or harder, but he doesn’t hesitate to lean down and tilt his head just so to press their lips together.

Jihoon’s mouth is cold, but it's soft under his own. It doesn't try and kiss him back, but it does tilt into him. He's all softness and give under the pressure. Like Seungcheol's welcome, more than welcome. Like maybe Jihoon has just been waiting for something like this.

The thought gives Seungcheol a warm feeling, and it just seems natural to press a little closer, sweep his tongue over Jihoon's lower lop. Jihoon makes a small, startled noise, his breath warm against Seungcheol’s mouth, and then it seems just as natural to part Jihoon's lips with his own and stroke their tongues together.

The gesture makes Jihoon go instantly tense; hardly the effect Seungcheol had been going for.

 _First kiss—_ Seungcheol thinks, and maybe it's that thought that makes him break the kiss, that forces him to pull away, mouth instantly colder, and strangely lost. He pulls back, rather abruptly, then tries, rather awkwardly, to remove his arm without being too obvious about it.

“Uh—how was that?”

Jihoon stands there quietly for a moment, a bit dazed, touching his fingers to his lips. Then he shakes his head as if to clear it, “It wasn’t that special.”

“Ah—hey.” Seungcheol gapes at him, torn between insult and amusement. “ _Rude_. It was your first time. I was _trying_ to be gentlemanly. I didn’t wanna just shove my tongue--”

Jihoon waves him off easily, “My disappointment is no fault of yours I am certain. I understand now why you were so reluctant to exclude it from my initial research strategy, it seems to be an overrated tradition.”

Seungcheol feels vaguely insulted. No, no. He’s supremely insulted.

“You know what— _no_. C’mere. Let me try again.” He says, catching Jihoon by the waist and pulling him closer.

Second kisses should be slower. People that let you kiss them twice get kissed properly, so they know they made a smart decision. Seungcheol pushes a hand into Jihoon’s hair, uses it to tilt his head up and goes for it.

There is no awkwardness the second time, no hesitation. Each touch of their lips leads easily, naturally to the next, as if they've been kissing each other forever.

Seungcheol likes the way Jihoon kisses him like he's surprised. He’s had a lot of kisses, but he's never had surprised kissing before and he thinks he could get used to it. The way it's uncertain one minute and then pushy the next. Like he's an experiment Jihoon's trying out.

Seungcheol wants to make it good for him; he strokes his thumb along Jihoon's jaw, takes Jihoon's bottom lip between his, worrying it, and when he traces the line between Jihoon's lips with his tongue, Jihoon opens up to him eagerly.

Jihoon's hands are dangling hesitantly at his sides at first, but now they come up, flat against Seungcheol's chest. Not to push him away, but to fist into his shirt and drag him closer. He murmurs into Seungcheol’s mouth, wordless and encouraging sounds—presses closer, until Seungcheol wraps his arms around his back, feeling warm skin beneath the cotton T-shirt.

The heat between their bodies is and sudden, unexpectedly intimate. It spreads throughout Seungcheol’s body like a rampant virus that by the time they break apart, flushed and breathless, he’s half-way hard in his pants.  

“Well?” Seungcheol asks, playing with the fine hairs at Jihoon’s nape, “How was that?”

His other hand is on Jihoon’s waist, and he realizes he is rubbing a bare patch of skin where Jihoon’s shirt has hitched up. He wonders if he should stop, but he can’t bring himself to do so. Especially given that Jihoon doesn’t appear to want to lodge any kind of protest about the touching.

Jihoon blinks owlishly at him, once—twice, before his gaze turns dreamy and hooded, “It seems a little early to come to any conclusions just yet. We should probably do that again. For science—of course.”

“Yeah, sure—” Seungcheol smirks. “ _Science_.”

Seungcheol's all for experiments in the name of science.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) So it's not Christmas anymore, but this took longer to write and edit than expected. Sorry. Hopefully you're not sick of Christmas stuff by now to read this!  
> 2) I had a lot of the Christmas ideas written before I even started this, because I'd tweeted about Alien hoon spending Christmas with Cheol. The Twitter thread is...slightly modified here, because unlike the thread, I have a planned ending to this fic and I need the plot to go somewhere.  
> 3) Alien hoon believing in santa though. The idea has me so soft.  
> 4) Also, learnt a new word...adularescence. Cause I did a shit bunch of research on gems, trying to come up with the perfect one for Seungcheol to gift Jihoon and...Moonstone seemed so appropriate. It's so pretty, like Jihoon.  
> 5) Hope you enjoyed the update! Let me know your thought, and any weird things you'd like Alien Hoon to research next. Thanks for reading!


	5. Cultural Appreciation

**DAY:799**

“Seungcheol?”

.

.

“Seungcheol?”

.

.

“Pay attention to me human!”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes and gives in, against his better judgment.

He spins his chair, and glances over at Jihoon hovering awkwardly by the flight console.

The Alien has his hands tucked in his pockets, his weight tipping forward and back like a child who’s done something wrong and hasn’t quite worked up the courage to confess.

Seungcheol sighs in aggravation. “What is it Hoonie? What have you done now?”

“Nothing.” Jihoon huffs, then seems to realise he’s giving off guilty ‘ _I made the microwave sentient again’_ vibes and immediately adjusts his stance into something more _serious_. “I just wanted to ask if I may I borrow your I-Pod for non-destructive purposes. I know you don’t like it when I just _take_ things that belong to you, so I thought It wise to ask permission first.”

Seungcheol’s not buying the ‘non-destructive’ part of that sentence; he knows that serious and determined face too well. He doesn’t care what Jihoon claims, there will be research and destruction of household appliances in the very near future. He can _feel_ it.

“Are you gonna try and turn it into a gamma ray detector, a bomb or a heat seeking missile? _Again_.”

Jihoon shakes his head. “No. I require it for its _melodic tunes_.” He says simply, like it’s of vital importance.  

Seungcheol squints at him, doubtful. “ _You_ wanna listen to _music_?”

“Not exactly.” Jihoon shrugs, staring at Seungcheol’s shoulder rather than meeting his gaze. “I want to dance.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow, sitting stiffly against the back of his chair. “Come again?”

Jihoon shifts on his feet, then moves to lean uncomfortably against the side of the flight console.

“I have been researching human dance styles recently, and I find the rhythm and fluidity of the movements both soothing and inspiring. I wish to emulate them to better understand this soundless form of communication.”

Seungcheol’s leaning forward before he realises it, curious and more than a little fascinated by this random turn of events.

“Really. Okay. What kind of dancing are we talking about here?”

“I can show you,” Jihoon offers, crossing his arms loosely in front of him. “But I will require music to demonstrate.”

Seungcheol shrugs, sticks his I-Pod in its docking bay on the flight console and hits play.

A moment later the music starts, and then Jihoon—Instead of erupting into a beautiful modern interpretive dance that brings Seungcheol to tears and transcends time and space itself—starts _flossing_.  

Yes, that’s right. _Flossing_.

Oh, and not just any flossing—he’s flossing in the most business-like manner a person can floss. His face is pinched with focus, like this is serious business indeed and if he messes it up there will be dire consequences. Possibly for the entire galaxy.

“Do you like it?” Jihoon asks. And he’s _clearly_ been practicing, because he doesn’t lose his flossing rhythm. Not one bit.

Seungcheol continues to stare, in a way that he hopes doesn’t seem discouraging.

He’s not discouraged, he’s just trying to translate this into something that makes sense in his head.

“You’re—you’re _flossing_.”

Jihoon’s pinched expression smooths out with a shy smile, “Yes. It’s very captivating—isn’t it.”

Seungcheol chokes on his next inhale and coughs, blinking with surprise, “Nn-yeah—when _you_ do it, sure. Can’t say it was what I was expecting you to pull off, but it’s certainly…… _where did you learn this?”_

“On The YouTube.” Jihoon says, then frowns like he’s not sure if he got the phrasing right.

Of course, he did.

 _Of course,_ Jihoon’s been drawn to only the most viral dance trends.

“I have learnt other dance styles as well.” Jihoon tells him, a challenging look in his eyes.

Seungcheol not sure whether to bring a halt to Jihoon's frenzied enthusiasm for dancing, or to just go with it. But then, that's something of a constant now. An eternal conundrum. Always wondering how far to let Jihoon run with things.

“Alright—” He hears himself say. “Go ahead. Show me.”

Jihoon’s next dance style isn’t something Seungcheol’s immediately familiar with.

It seems to mostly consist of shuffling from side to side and clapping, with some semi-enthusiastic nodding and the occasional ninety-degree turns—

Wait a minute—Is he doing the  _Electric Slide_?

Oh, god. _He is._

This isn’t even the Electric Slide  _music_. Although, in all honestly, Seungcheol can’t say the Electric Slide music would have been an improvement.

“This was a rather popular dance in the early 1980’s I gather.” Jihoon says, attempting to gyrate his pelvis at the end of a shuffle. It looks like an exercise a physical therapist might prescribe to a hip-replacement patient.

“ _Yeah_ —” Seungcheol drawls, following his movements. He scratches his chin and tries to school his expression to something less transparently baffled, “I think someone tried to resurrect it back in 2180 too. It never really took off though.”

Jihoon frowns, dipping down to touch the floor. “That’s a shame. I think it’s _fascinating_.”

Seungcheol snorts into his hand, “That’s _one_ way to put it.”

He continues to watch with increasingly slack-jawed amazement as Jihoon Electric Slide’s his way around the flight deck.

One song ends and another begins, and the Electric Slide turns into Chubby Checker’s iconic _‘The Twist’_ , which not-so-smoothly transitions into the Village People’s ‘ _YMCA’_ , and then the ‘ _Macarena’_.

Jihoon doesn’t seem to care what music’s playing—as long as there is a beat, he’s happily pulling out random dance moves from random time periods. He switches from ‘ _Whipping and Nae-naeing’_ to the ‘ _Robot’_ and then proceeds to _‘Crank that’_ all in the same damn song. Then finally Jihoon finishes off the whole insane dance segment by….. _twerking_.

And, _holy shit_ , does he give it a damn good go.

You wouldn’t expect such a small guy to have such a plump rump, but Jihoon’s got curves in just the right places and Seungcheol’s gaze is drawn to the hypnotic jiggle of his pert, round little--

“I see that you have been hypnotized by my spectacular dance moves.” Jihoon says, looking over his shoulder.

He’s still twerking his little heart out and Seungcheol actually, _actually_ —has to force his gaze up and _away_ from his ass to meet his gaze.

“No argument here.”

He can see Jihoon’s mouth twitch with amusement. “Can you dance?”

“Not really.” Seungcheol admits, feeling a little flustered even though he isn’t sure why. “I mean—when I’m in a club, I kind of _sway_ to the beat, but I’ve never been very demonstrative with my body. Not like….not like _this_ anyway.”

“But you are so muscular.” Jihoon argues, like that in some way should improve his chances.  

Seungcheol scoffs, “Doesn’t mean I can _dance_.”

Despite himself, he finds his gaze drawn to Jihoon’s jiggling butt again.  

He really wishes Jihoon would stop twerking…. and also _not_ at the same time.

It’s a damn good thing Central never installed any security cameras on the station, because he can imagine what an odd tableau this scene would make; Seungcheol lounging back in his flight seat while a member of an advanced Alien species twerks in his face.

 _Yeah_ , that would be amazingly bad out of context.

No. Scratch that. It’s amazingly bad _with_ context too.  

There is no context where this is appropriate. Or professional. But yet, it’s happening. It's barely been a few months and he's slowly forgetting what it's like to live somewhere where weird things _don't_ happen. Where he doesn’t keep getting 'involved' in things he doesn’t mean to.

He's fairly sure that he's caught in Jihoon's orbit and it's not exactly a stable one.

He really should stop looking.

Apparently his eyeballs don’t _agree_.

Jihoon, sadly, stops twerking all on his own when the music switches and a slow, relaxed waltz begins to fill the air.

“This music is not appropriate for dancing.” Jihoon huffs, staring at the I-pod like it has disappointed him in the most tragic way possible.

Although the choice of music didn’t seem to matter before, Elvis Presley’s _‘Can’t help falling in love’_ is evidently too slow, too _crooning_ for the viral dance styles Jihoon’s intent on demonstrating. Seungcheol can see him struggle to revive that unselfconscious energy he just recently revealed.

“Sure it is,” Seungcheol argues, “It’s just slow music. For _slow dancing_.”

Jihoon stares at him dubiously, like he thinks Seungcheol’s just made that up on the spot.

“Slow dancing?”

“Yeah, like—” Seungcheol stumbles out of his seat towards him. After a brief hesitation, he slides his arms around Jihoon’s waist and rests his hand on his lower back.

Jihoon blinks at the general vicinity of his chest, then slowly tips his head up. “Are you going to kiss me again?”

“Uh.” Seungcheol fumbles, not knowing how he’s supposed to respond to that. 

He looks steadily into Jihoon's eyes, hears the insistent pulse of hot blood thrumming in his veins, and croaks, “Do—do you _want_ me to kiss you?”

Jihoon looks confused, then quietly disappointed.

“This is the way you held me when we kissed. I thought you were going to do it again.”

There's a pause that's full of all the things Seungcheol wants to say, but can't - or can't work out how.

“I—I was just going to slow dance with you.” He finally clarifies awkwardly.

“Oh.” Jihoon smiles. “Okay.”

_Dammit._

Seungcheol mentally scolds himself for the lost opportunity. However, he can’t help the slight jolt that shoots through him when Jihoon’s hands slide up his chest to curl over his shoulders.

“Is—is this right?” Jihoon asks carefully.

Seungcheol tightens his grip and slowly pulls Jihoon a little closer, until there’s only a space of a breath dancing between them. “Yeah, yeah. That’s perfect.” The smell of Jihoon’s shampoo rushes into Seungcheol’s nose as their eyes lock awkwardly. After a moment Seungcheol forces himself to look away, gazing over Jihoon’s head as they begin to sway.

And really, swaying pretty much says it all. It’s not dancing by any means, but it’s easy and relaxed and Seungcheol finds he much prefers it like this, Jihoon in his arms, letting the music guide their bodies in a lazy rhythm.

“This is nice.” Jihoon murmurs after a moment. His voice is somewhere between serious and warm. It's a quirk that's pure _Jihoon_. 

“Yeah, it is.” Seungcheol breathes against his temple. 

Feeling a little braver, he lets his hands slide down the slope of Jihoon’s back to settle over his hips, then thinking, _to hell with it_ , he curves them around his ass. He feels Jihoon’s fingers twitch against his shoulders in surprise, before Jihoon slips his hands higher and laces his fingers at the back of Seungcheol’s neck. And suddenly, it’s not so innocent anymore. Not that any of this, really, none of this could have been classified as innocent to begin with. But now it’s something else entirely.

Jihoon is holding on to him now, _staring_ at him. Seungcheol can feel it, even though he point-blank _refuses_ to lower his eyes.

He squeezes them shut instead, resisting the urge to tip his head just enough that the strands of Jihoon’s hair will brush against his cheek the way they do sometimes in the dark of night when he is half-asleep.

“I like this dance best.” Jihoon whispers, a smile evident in his voice.

A bubble of emotion—joy, relief and impossible affection—presses against Seungcheol's chest. He hides his own smile against the top of Jihoon’s hair and pulls him closer.

They come to a slow stop as the music fades into silence. Seungcheol lifts his head from where it had been resting against Jihoon’s, meets Jihoon's gaze ... and falters ever so slightly at the rapt attention he sees there.

“Uhm….”

Jihoon’s eyes dip shyly beneath long dark lashes. “Can we do it again?”

Seungcheol huffs out a quiet laugh and nods, “Yeah, okay. Just let me….”

When he moves to turn the music back on, Jihoon tightens his grip on his neck, stopping him.  

“We don’t need music,” Jihoon says softly, stepping forward so his chest bumps against Seungcheol's. His expression is strangely hesitant, almost shy, but his blue eyes shine as clearly as ever, and Seungcheol thinks it's disappointing that nowhere in the world is there a sky as perfectly blue as Jihoon's eyes.

Smirking, Seungcheol pulls Jihoon flush against him and they begin swaying together again.

He doesn’t know what beat they are following, if Jihoon has a song in his head or if he just likes the gentle, soothing motions, but Seungcheol holds him and moves with him anyway.

Without a song there is no real end point, but Seungcheol finds he really doesn’t mind.

* * *

**DAY:804**

Seungcheol gets roped into Jihoon’s next experiment, some human behavioural study, because he's awake, and within a fifty-foot radius. Although he suspects there could have been a handful of willing participants and Jihoon still would have found some exclusionary measure to annoy him and only him.

It has to be a morbid sort of curiosity that has Seungcheol doing as he's told. He's not sure what else it could be. He doesn't actually know what the basis of the experiment is because that will apparently 'skew the results’, but it mostly consists of picking out shapes and patterns and trying to remember things.

He's fairly sure it isn't some sort of horrible psychological experiment that's going to scar him for life. It better _not_ be one of those.

He's still weirdly afraid of failing it though, whatever it is.

"The fact that I let you live here with me doesn't give you free rein to experiment on me, just for future reference." He tells Jihoon during a quiet interlude.

"I'm not experimenting on you," Jihoon offers, over the data-pad he's balancing on his arm, "I'm just using your data to confirm earlier findings. You will not be subjected to anything invasive, for now," He says without looking at him.

Seungcheol frowns at him, because he has no idea whether that's a joke or not.

"Wow. Thanks. _That's reassuring."_

“No need to thank—” The look Jihoon throws him is something strange and unique to him. “Wait. Was that…..”

Seungcheol nods sagely. “Yeah, Jihoon—that was sarcasm.”

Jihoon smiles, quietly pleased. “I believe I am getting better at detecting it.”

Seungcheol's tempted to reply sarcastically, just to test him, but decides to save it for another day.

“Now. For my final assessment.” Jihoon says, stepping into the empty floor space next to Seungcheol’s chair and unzipping his flight suit. 

It drops in large white folds, ends up piled over, and between Jihoon's bare feet. Brighter than the tiles around it, and now…..now Jihoon is exactly the sort of naked that Seungcheol has been carefully avoiding thinking about since he laid him down on the med bay table all those weeks ago.

Seungcheol’s eyes can’t decide what to look at first.

His opportunities to look at naked people have been few and far between lately, and Jihoon really is very naked. It's difficult to _not_ look. Because it's only natural to wonder, after all, to see how people are put together under their clothes. He doesn't have the observational powers of Jihoon, but it's hard not to focus on - on _everything_.

Jihoon’s body is gorgeous; narrow and artistic, every line of him slim but masculine.

 _Definitely_ masculine.

There’s no denying that thing between his legs, regardless of how small it is, is a penis. Seungcheol probably shouldn’t be staring at it _quite_ so intently, but there’s just too much naked skin in his direct line of sight, and he’s been curious for so long he just can’t help himself.

It’s official now, no more curiosity. Jihoon has a dick—a cute little cock; not that Seungcheol will be saying that to his face anytime soon. And, _woah_ , no hair at all?

That’s…that’s…

Does he _manscape_?

Alienscape?

Is that even a _thing?_ That sounds like a computer game actually. 

Probably not. He’s probably born that way. Or _grown_ that way. Jihoon’s skin is too storybook flawless for hair, skin is so pale and smooth you could drink it in.

Seungcheol suddenly feels a little sick with desire.

Jihoon himself seems almost aggressively unconcerned with his own nudity, which just makes it worse somehow. There's nothing overtly sexual about the pose he’s holding, but Seungcheol's brain doesn't seem to _care_. He's never wanted to reach out and touch something so much in his life

“As I suspected.” Jihoon announces, recording _something_ on his data-pad. He speaks the words as though he knows _exactly_ what Seungcheol is thinking. Maybe he _does._

Seungcheol settles for an irritated tone of voice, because it's a comfortable, familiar emotion that isn't distracted by nudity. “Suspected _what_?”

Jihoon scribbles something onto his tablet before reaching for his biometric sensor.

“Your excitable reaction to my nudity.” He answers simply.

The very tips of Seungcheol’s ears heat, but he doesn’t look away.

“I imagine my reaction would have been the same for anyone else subjected to sudden and extreme nudity.” He protests, trying not to sound defensive. 

Jihoon sets the data-pad aside to pull the flight suit back on, slipping it over his shoulders smoothly and zipping it up. “Perhaps.” His voice is blandly even. His expression as cool and steady as ever as he reclaims his data-pad and gestures toward the door. “That will be all for now.”

Relief and disappointment ricochet behind Seungcheol's ribs, and he grits his teeth, rising from his chair.

He leaves as quickly as he can manage without looking too desperate to get away, but even without turning his head, he can feel Jihoon's eyes follow his every retreating step.

He sets aside his embarrassment for the moment; there will be time to feel truly mortified about this later. In private. It won't stop him from wanting things he has no business wanting from an advanced Alien species.

Honestly, Seungcheol's entire life is so fucking unfair.

* * *

**DAY:805**

Seungcheol’s been repairing the same panel for the last two hours.

It’s not that it’s extensively damaged or anything, it’s just that he’s working slower than usual.

A lot slower.

If he’s being completely transparent, it’s because he needs the breathing space, away from Jihoon, to think things through.

And Jihoon’s given him a lot to think about recently.

It occurs to him, over the glow of a blow torch and with a disturbing lack of fanfare, that there's the slight possibility he may be sexually attracted to his Alien visitor.

Which is just…..

Wow. 

Seungcheol's never been interested in another man before.

Well, not really. There's always been the understanding that one drunken night of experimentation would be the closest he ever got to bisexuality. But he's most assuredly not drunk _now_ and the blackness of space will forgive him if he's a little confused. Because he thinks he may be seriously considering offering Jihoon his body for experimentation in a sexual nature. Which feels like the sort of huge life decision he shouldn’t be forced to make while fixing radiation panels.

There's a vast world of difference between being in Jihoon’s orbit and actually being  _involved_  with him.

It's slightly more worrying that he's suddenly wondering what sex with Jihoon would be like. He's fairly sure he's not allowed to think things like that, for so many sensible reasons. He doesn't even know if Jihoon has sex, or whether he finds it all horribly unnecessary and beneath him.

Seungcheol's forced to wonder if you can have an entire relationship without ever having sex. Because it feels like that's what they're doing, and he's sure you're supposed to  _notice_  when things like this happen. You're supposed to notice when you cross the line from visitor to room-mate, room-mate to friend, friend to...something else?

The worst part is, he thinks he may actually be to blame for some of it. Times where other people— _where normal people_ —would have put their foot down and not let a small Alien sleep in their bed, watch them shower and climb into their lap whenever they felt like it.

 _Yeah_. This is all definitely his fault.

* * *

**DAY:809**

They’re spending the evening doing something normal for a change, and watching re-runs of old documentaries on the tele-bay. At _Jihoon’s_ insistence, of course. Because as much as he loves binging on episodes of Spongebob SquarePants, he still insists that his interactions with human technology should be _educational_.

So recently it’s been a weird toss-up between _National Geographic_ or _Nickelodeon_ , and frankly, Seungcheol would rather sit through 45 minutes of lions sprinting in slow motion, then another episode of that yellow porous freak.

Even if the documentary spends _way_ too long filming the mating scenes, because _woah_ —he’s fairly sure that’s more than he needed to learn about Lions to last him his whole lifetime.

The awkwardness on screen does pose a few questions though. Questions he’s been meaning to ask.

“We don’t really talk about this—but I’ve been meaning to ask you something Jihoon,” Seungcheol begins.

It's probably rude to ask, but it's not as if Jihoon hasn't asked him any number of invasive, intimate questions during their current, strange partnership. And he hasn't always balked at answering them either. It's only fair, he thinks.

Jihoon looks up at him through his hair, and Seungcheol leaves his expression as bland as he can manage. “How do your species— _reproduce_?”

Jihoon makes a face like he finds the whole affair impossibly tedious.

“We have many ways. Some you might be familiar with, while others are more advanced to minimise distractions.”

Seungcheol quirks an eyebrow, “Distractions, huh? So—even with all your _developments_ , your species still do the horizontal monster mash then?”

Jihoon's tiny noise of amusement suggests he's reading Seungcheol's mind again. “Humans have many words to describe one act, it’s fascinating. More fascinating than the act itself I think.”

“Wait. So— _you_ have no interest in sex?” Seungcheol asks. He's fairly sure he'd like to know, because he's never met anyone who doesn't have sex because they genuinely have no interest, rather than through lack of opportunity, or personal choice.

“No.” Jihoon frowns like he’s angry Seungcheol came to the wrong conclusion. Honestly, Jihoon gets mad at him for flailing around in the dark, but he's usually the one standing right next to the light switch.

“I wouldn’t go that far. My species are still conditioned to desire intimacy, but as life force that seeks technological advancement and the pursuit of knowledge, we have more useful purposes for our bodies than seeking pleasure.”

Jihoon has a way of making it not sound half as crazy as it should.

“That’s depressing.” Seungcheol says without really thinking about it.

Jihoon wrinkles his nose, “It is _not_. I am not experiencing depression. I am satisfied with my research and my life exploring the universe. I do not have sufficient data to conclude that I have no interest in sexual encounters, but I am perfectly content without ever having one.”

Seungcheol rolls his head towards him, eyes fixing on his face. He inhales, sharply, and says, “Is that some obscure scientific way of saying you’re a _virgin_?”

Jihoon blinks at him, in that way he does when he feels he's answered a question already and doesn't understand why Seungcheol needs him to repeat himself.

 _“I don’t have sufficient data.”_ He repeats anyway. Rather than accuse Seungcheol of not listening the first time, or of being an idiot.

“So, you’re a virgin then.” Seungcheol summarises, since Jihoon doesn’t seem to want to. “That—that explains a lot.”

He can tell he's scored a point because Jihoon looks uncomfortable and annoyed. “Like what?”

“Like that stick up your ass.”

“The what?” Jihoon gasps, checking between his legs like there may in fact be one lodged up there.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, “It’s a figure of speech. Look—I don’t doubt that you’re happy now. I just think you could possibly be happier if you _expanded your horizons_. I can’t help but feel like you’re missing out.”

Jihoon shakes his head. "I am not missing out. I have studied the sexual mating habits of many species, including your own, and I did a brief anthropological study-"

“It’s not really the same.” Seungcheol interrupts.

He can't tell if Jihoon's more annoyed about the interruption or the insinuation that he's lacking valuable data in any sort of intellectual arena.

Seungcheol sighs. "All I'm saying is— _don't knock it ‘til you've tried it."_

Jihoon huffs from where he's sprawled elegantly on his seat and then throws his arms out to the side.

“Since you’re so openly endorsing it, am I right to conclude that you’re a paragon of sexual prowess?” He mutters and it's obvious he's irritated now.

“Well—" Seungcheol smirks, leaning back in his seat. “Let’s just say—If they gave out PHD’s, I wouldn’t need one.”

Jihoon frowns, confused.

“Because I already _have_ a PHD.” Seungcheol elaborates.

He really hates that he has to elaborate at all, but Jihoon’s brow furrows deeper.

“They award doctorates for sexual expertise in your world?”

Seungcheol makes a face, “No, _no_ —it’s a play on the acronym. P-H-D—stands for _pretty huge dick.”_

Jihoon rolls his head towards him. “And to think I thought you were funny once.”

“You know what—back on earth, that would have been hilarious. I’m really funny and loveable back home.” Seungcheol huffs, turning back to the screen pointedly.

On the television, a lion has just brought down an antelope and it's still kicking feebly.

It feels like some sort of strange metaphor for his life at the moment.

* * *

**DAY:812**

Every morning Seungcheol tosses a coin to determine whether he’ll hit the gym or run laps around the lower deck of the station. The gym wins the toss up today, and he spends a solid hour alternating his work-out between weights and cardio.

When he strolls into the mess hall after, he discovers Jihoon's awake and has invaded the kitchen table, half in and half out of his too-big hoodie. It's as if even getting that on straight had been too much trouble this morning.

Not content with stealing Seungcheol’s clothes, the petite Alien has also seen fit to hijack his data-pad again, hot-chocolate mug leaving wet rings perilously close to the keys.

"Dude, if you get hot chocolate on my keyboard I'm going to spank you.” Seungcheol warns as he passes, “Also, I'm going to start rationing your internet hours."

Jihoon looks genuinely distressed about the threat to restrict his internet hours, even though Seungcheol’s been using the same threat for weeks and failing to go through with it.  

“I am conducting important _research_.” He pouts.

Seungcheol snorts something doubtful as he opens the fridge; he knows that Jihoon's own personal idea of what's _important_ will forever remain tragically skewed from everyone else’s.

“Yeah—but you say that about everything. Doesn’t mean you should be allowed to sit in front of the internet all day. It’s not healthy.”

Jihoon makes a noise of vague, reluctant agreement, but doesn't make any attempt to stop staring at the screen.

Seungcheol leaves him be for a while as he debates between cooking up some breakfast now, or waiting till after his shower. Deciding on the latter, he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge door and nudges it shut.

“You should come hit the gym with me sometime. It’d be good for you.” He announces, approaching the table.

“The gym is _hazardous_.” Jihoon grinds out, though it's more a petulant denial than a truth.

Seungcheol drops into the chair nearest to him and uncaps a bottle of water. “You’re just saying that because you got trapped under the barbell. I told you not to lift weights without me spotting you, even though you didn’t _actually_ have any weights _on_ the bar when you got trapped, it’s still important that someone spots you.”

Jihoon throws Seungcheol a bitchface to rival all bitchfaces over the top of his data-pad instead of refuting that, then drops his gaze again when Seungcheol just grins back at him.

There’s something unusual about his silence this morning, something cagy. Usually when Seungcheol makes an appearance, Jihoon abandons what he’s been working on and corners him with a million and one questions about whatever inane ‘human’ topic has taken his interest that day. The fact that he stays there, watching the screen so intently without so much as raised eyebrow has Seungcheol’s curiosity piqued.

Seungcheol rocks back on his chair, just a little, tips sideways to see if he can catch the edge of Jihoon's screen. It’s too far away and too blurry for Seungcheol to be able to tell what he's doing, so he asks, “What _are_ you looking at kitten?”

“I have decided to take your advice Human.” Jihoon says casually, then waits an extra beat, just long enough for Seungcheol to get a decent mouthful of his water. “I am watching pornography.”

The water ends up sprayed all over the table and, judging by the gasping-choking noise Seungcheol makes, completely the wrong way down his throat.

There's a long period of hacking, some raspy breathing and then, finally, Seungcheol manages to say, “You’re _what_?”

“I’m watching pornography.” Jihoon repeats flatly, like he doesn’t see what the fuss is.

“Okay—but _why_?” Seungcheol can't resist asking, he just can't.

“You _did_ suggest I learn more about human sexual practices, and according to my research, the internet is the best place for such a topic.” Jihoon adds helpfully without looking away from the screen. “It does strike me as odd how these encounters begin: two people with no social connection whatsoever meet under peculiar circumstances—they speak suggestively to each other, quickly discard their clothing and begin engaging in intercourse on various pieces of equipment not intended for that purpose. Occasionally a third person will stumble upon them and join in. How _strange_.”

Seungcheol stumbles out of his seat and takes two steps forward, trying to look like he's in no way peeking over Jihoon's shoulder.

Fifteen seconds later he reels away and throws Jihoon a horrified look, because this isn’t just your run of the mill, _‘I just met you and this is crazy, but please bend over’_ porn—this is pure, filthy, obscenely graphic, deliberately rough, just for the sake of it, stick-your-tongue-everywhere-it's-not-supposed-to-go porn. 

“Okay—so you’re watching pretty hardcore stuff here Jihoon.” He gestures, pointing at the screen. “I feel obligated, on behalf of humanity, to point out that is _not_ how people usually go about having sex. Porn is heavily rehearsed. It’s like ….sexual entertainment….. for the _viewer_.”

Jihoon stares at him sideways, in that completely bewildered sort of way he has that shouldn’t be adorable at this moment.

“But—they _are_ engaging in sexual acts.”

“Yeah—on top of a photocopier!” Seungcheol says through his teeth. “That never happens in real life.”

Jihoon's giving him a completely blank look that's so obviously lost.

On screen, a woman in high heels and a suit that is decidedly _not_ safe for work, starts stuffing her own fist up her ass while a man eats her pussy out. On top of a photocopier. _Honestly_ , the cliché of it all.

Seungcheol resists the urge to lean over Jihoon's shoulder again for a good fifteen seconds. Then just gives in. 

“Yeah, okay—I know they’re actually having sex, but it’s all for show. Most people—most _normal_ people don’t fist themselves on a photocopier while their boss watches. I mean, look how empty that office is, how that guy’s suit doesn’t even fit him properly. It’s all clearly _staged_.”

“Oh.” Jihoon murmurs sadly. Then glares at Seungcheol’s ear. “You mean to say I have wasted all this time studying a false performance?”

Seungcheol’s eyes slide sideways. “How much of this stuff have you watched?”

Jihoon glares at the accusing glow of the screen for as long as it takes him to sigh out a whole breath. “37 hours and 48 minutes……This week.”

“ _Okay then_.” Seungcheol hears himself say.

There's a healthy dose of 'what the fuck' going on in his voice. But he's not sure if it's enough, if it could ever be enough. Because that might just be more porn than he’s watched his entire _life_.

Shaking his head, he drags a chair over and swivels the data-pad round.

Jihoon never clears the browser history, because he’s drained the battery too many times, sending hours of research into oblivion. So his entire porn site visit history is right there, displayed in the browser. And he’s been watching every cheesy porno under the sun apparently; _‘Clear and pleasant danger’_ , _‘Midsummer’s Night Cream’_ , _‘Buffy the Vampire Layer’_ , and even some movie called _‘Bat Dude and Throbbin’._

Seungcheol scrolls down, and down, and _down_ some more.

Two pages later he's still scrolling past titles Jihoon’s clearly been watching in the pursuit of scientific research. Or perhaps… _personal_ interest?

If so, score one for 'genuinely interested' then.

Seungcheol is honestly surprised he’s taken the time to research all this. Which is why he's very glad Jihoon's not currently looking at him.

“I can’t believe you’ve just been sitting around watching porn for 37 hours Jihoon, and at breakfast too. People don’t usually watch porn over breakfast you know, porn’s a late night, seedy hour kind of thing that you do in the privacy of your room where nobody can judge you. At least you had the decency to mute the volume, but— _oh god_ —you’re not even browsing these sites incognito! Central must think I’m busting a permanent nut up here!”

“I am sorry.” Jihoon murmurs, and yeah, that's his guilty face alright, only this one's a little bit more disturbed by humanity than it usually is.

There's absolutely no way Seungcheol isn't going to laugh at that.

 _“I—can’t …believe—"_ He rasps our breathlessly. He’s laughing now, making noises he's fairly sure are unattractive and he doesn't even care.

“Why are you laughing?” Jihoon murmurs. His nostrils flare, always a bad sign. “I do not understand why this is so amusing.”

Seungcheol leans against the table and wipes a tear or mirth from the corner of his eye.

“I’m just picturing you sitting here, watching porn and taking notes like it’s super serious research.” He takes a breath and then loses it again straight away and Jihoon's expression of offended irritation just makes it  _worse._

"It's not funny, Seungcheol, stop laughing." Jihoon pouts.

Seungcheol's not sure he can. This is going to be funny forever. _Forever_.

Jihoon continues to glare but there's a flare of embarrassment there now—a hint of colour flushing along the bridge of his nose.

Through some miracle or divine intervention, Seungcheol’s laughter dies down and he drops into a chair huffing out something that might be the last of it. Save for a grin that just won't quit.

“I did not know this was unacceptable practice. I only wanted to learn.” Jihoon sighs. There's a tired, almost angry sincerity there, under the low gravel burn of his voice.

Seungcheol reaches a hand out to squeeze the back of his neck. “ _I know, I know._ I guess there really isn’t another way for you to study sex outside of porn unless —”

_Unless we fucked._

Woah.

Where did _that_ come from?

_You know where. Don’t pretend like you haven’t--_

“How about—” Seungcheol interrupts his own line of thought before it takes shape—"We browse incognito, and I’ll show you some sites I like. That way I could point out what’s exaggerated and what’s not.”

“Okay.” Jihoon chirps, mood brightening visibly. “But can we watch sexual intercourse between two males? I have yet to find sufficient material on this, and it is what interests me the most.”

Seungcheol swallows thickly, and feels the weight in his groin in a way he hadn't really been concentrating on before.

“Good—” He croaks. “Good to know.”

Switching onto a private browser, as not to damage his reputation at Central any further, he picks at random from the selection of pages in the menu. It takes him four clicks to find something he likes. Something he wouldn’t mind watching himself and could probably, given the mood and present company, easily jerk off to himself.

Unfortunately, he has no control over the cheesy titles every porno movie just _must_ have, and cringes when _‘Four Weddings and a Twink’_ appears as the title screen.  

“What’s a twink?” Jihoon asks curiously, at the opening of the first scene.  

Seungcheol gives him a furtive once over, then forcefully drags his eyes back to the screen.

“You. _You’re_ a twink.”

“Oh.” Jihoon says, then smiles. He seems inordinately please by that.

* * *

**DAY:813**

Seungcheol almost, _almost_ regrets involving himself with Jihoon’s human sexual theory research, because now Jihoon’s following him around, asking questions like this is research opportunity that’s too good to pass up.

Some of the questions are easy enough to answer; foreplay, erogenous zones and post coital spooning; but most of them are bordering on obscene and Seungcheol finds himself reluctant to answer.

“I just don’t understand—” Jihoon's voice floats up from where Seungcheol’s completely out of sight inside an open maintenance hatch.  “Why does the first male spread his ejaculate over the second male’s face? There can be no biological or functional reason for this. Unless there is some symbolic reason for the gesture, it strikes me as unnecessarily _wasteful_ act. Surely the seminal fluid could be put to better use?”

Seungcheol rubs the space between his eyes and sighs, loudly.

He wonders if asking Jihoon nicely if he could come back and pester him tomorrow would work, because reassembling the primary communications array is hard enough even without _those_ type of questions bouncing around in his head.  

“I don’t know what to tell you Jihoon. Maybe it _is_ symbolic.”

“Symbolic in what way?”

Seungcheol crawls deftly out from the open hatch and levers himself down to the ground. “I don’t know—maybe it’s like an ownership thing? Painting someone with you cum _is_ pretty intimate, so maybe it’s a territorial gesture or something.”

Jihoon cocks his head to one side.

“I see. Like how a dog urinates on a lamppost to establish the boundaries of its territory.”

Seungcheol grimaces inwardly, because as comparisons go—that’s not one he’s familiar with. Or comfortable with.

In fact, that comparison is all _wrong_.

“I don’t know if that’s a good comparison to make Jihoonie,” He says, reaching for his maintenance pad to initiate a diagnostic scan.

The computer helpfully informs him it will take somewhere around thirty-nine minutes, so Seungcheol sets it aside and twists his head round far enough to look at Jihoon, “But you know—not _every_ gesture has to be layered with meaning. Sometimes people do things spur of the moment. Jerking off all over a pretty guy’s face is pretty hot; the obscenity kind of adds to the experience. You know?”

Jihoon makes a face of puzzlement. “I’m afraid I do not.”

Seungcheol starts collecting the scattered array of components on the floor, hoping that will be the end of that. There’s only so many questions about sex he can handle when he’s not actually having sex himself, and isn’t likely to anytime soon.

But Jihoon’s silence is still _inquisitive_ —so it’s not really surprising that he lingers as Seungcheol packs up his tools, then asks:

“In the movie we watched together, and the countless others I came upon, the twink, as you put it, is always the receiving partner. Why is that the case?”

After only a moment's hesitation, Seungcheol gives a helpless shrug. "I don't know, maybe it's a height thing, or a physical power thing, or maybe it's just whoever's prettiest takes it up-" Seungcheol immediately decides that's not the best way to phrase it. "-ends up on the bottom. I'm not exactly an expert."

Jihoon is still frowning, like it's complicated rocket science or something. Though what does Seungcheol know, maybe it is. Maybe all the top/bottom dynamic is bewildering to his species.

"So if I were to be...paired with you for instance-"

"What--" Seungcheol says abruptly, fumbling with his screwdriver. It drops to the floor and rolls away, and Jihoon follows its journey until it comes to a stop at his feet before carefully picking it up.

He hands it back to Seungcheol with a raised eyebrow. “You were saying?”

"Uhm, yeah—in that scenario, you would—” Seungcheol’s gone to that inappropriate place again. He makes a gesture, which he's fairly sure doesn't make it all better, then just settles for, “ _Bottom_.”

"Because I'm shorter than you," Jihoon states.

"Uh huh," Seungcheol says, because yeah, he's just going to go with that.

"And...prettier." Jihoon's clearly not quite as sure about that.

"Yup.”

"And my ability to outwit you has no relevance on our positions?"

Seungcheol shakes his head, holds a hand up.

"Dude, don't say 'outwit you' in that creepy way when we're talking about sex ok."

Jihoon frowns confusion but seems to take the suggestion on board. Though it's clear he's still waiting for some sort of clarification, and seriously Seungcheol’s kind of disturbed by the idea that anything he has to say about this might be recorded somewhere and studied by an advanced Alien race.

"Look, I don't know, it's not like a  _rule_  you have to follow, I think you just go with whatever you're comfortable with. I’m sure there are plenty of big beefy guys out there who like the idea of a smaller dude topping. What do I know.”

Jihoon gives him a careful once-over.

“Are _you_ comfortable with that idea?” He asks pointedly.

“No. Wha—no. No.” Seungcheol chokes out, flushing.

“Why not?” Jihoon says, quirking an eyebrow.

Normally Seungcheol really enjoys Jihoon’s eyebrow quirk—under _normal_ circumstances it’s kind of weirdly endearing. But in _this_ situation, it’s just unnecessarily suggestive.

“Just. It’s a just preference.” Seungcheol can't help but wonder whether giving Jihoon more information is ever a good thing, when he's proven already that he's so very good at using it against you. The fact that he can't seem to help it somehow makes it even more irritating. “I’m not into guys usually, so when I do sway that way, I need to be in control.”

Jihoon falls quiet. His protests pause, but Seungcheol has a feeling they have not ceased entirely.

"What?" he demands when the silence stretches too long. “You gonna call me repressed or something? Cause I’m not. I just know what I like.”

Jihoon frowns and shakes his head, “No. I have no grounds to state such things, especially considering I have no experience of my own. I just concluded that with an ass as fine as yours—you would be a very popular submissive partner. _More cushion for the pushin_ —or so to speak.”

Seungcheol hopes he's wearing a good incredulous face, because WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?

There's a curl of approval in Jihoon’s mouth, not just approval,  _really_  not just approval. Which is disturbing in ways Seungcheol doesn’t even have the brain power to process at the moment.

“That's it!” Seungcheol snaps, trying to sound authoritative as he points his finger. “You’re not allowed to watch anymore porn.”

Jihoon pouts.

He actually pouts, which, on any other day, would be _hilarious_.

* * *

**DAY: 818**

Seungcheol wakes up one morning to the news that a terraforming colony on _Novis Initiis_ _III_ has been completely wiped out by, a yet unidentified, ‘parasitic organism’.

It’s the kind of otherworldly horror you expect to see in Science-fiction movies and TV—not splashed across your newsfeed at 8.30 in the morning when you’re buttering your toast. But there it is, in stark headlines _: ‘4000 colonists dead’_ , _‘Rescue team abandoned’_ , _‘Novis Initiis III deemed uninhabitable’, ‘Twenty billion-dollar project terminated’._

Needless to say, it’s something of a PR disaster for Central—especially if he’s hearing about it all the way up _here_.

He’s half surprised they even bothered to inform him at all, but that kind of shit isn’t something Central could possibly hope to cover up in the long run, so they’re clearly playing the transparency card early and hoping the population will be forgiving.

No luck there.

Within hours of the news breaking, there are more than a thousand videos, twice as many pictures, eleven news feeds, six ‘Aliens chest bursting’ memes, and numerous interviews from specialists drafted in from all over the world. There are protests outside Central HQ, angry mobs and devastated relatives demanding justice, outcries for the CEO’s resignation.

Turns out Central’s been trying to quarantine the site for months, kept sending scientists in hoping they could find a solution as to why their colonists insides where _liquifying_. Whatever it was, hadn’t been picked up in any initial or subsequent testing of the planet’s surface and no amount of medical intervention could reverse the effects. The quarantine measures failed, _repeatedly_ , until Central had to put their hand’s up and admit defeat. They withdrew from the colony, stopped sending resources and left the rescue team on site as a precautionary measure.

The fact that they could just so easily abandon their own like that seems to be what’s bothering people the most, but Seungcheol can see the logic behind it. As brutal as it is, until they can identify the parasite, Central can’t risk bringing anyone from the colony back and exposing a densely populated area.

Still though— _4000 people_.

That’s a bigger headcount than that Space-cruise ship disaster. Incidentally, also Central’s fault.

Seungcheol shucks off most of his duties for the day to follow the story, stays glued to the data-pad most of the day. He even breaks his ‘No TV at the dinner table’ rule, just so he can stay updated as events unfold.

“Can you believe this shit? It’s crazy.” He tells Jihoon as he bites into his sandwich.

“Yes. Such a sad loss of life.” Jihoon sighs. His expression is focused but there's a gentle nostalgia to the words. Something sad under his creased brow and the way he's curled in his chair.

“I’ll say—” Seungcheol’s voice is muffled as he chews. “4000 people. That’s approximately 900 families. _Gone_.”

“ _Families_?” Jihoon asks, and there’s an unmistakable tightness there.

“Yeah—well they were Terraformers Jihoon.” Seungcheol says simply. Then decides he should probably clarify. “Humans have been terraforming other planets for years to help manage population levels. There’s not enough space on Earth for all of us, so usually Terraforming colonies consist of entire families that emigrate off-planet for a fresh start.”

“Oh.” Jihoon says, His voice sounds strangely thin.

Seungcheol’s attention shifts back to the screen then, as an interview with one of Central’s leading scientists begins.

There’s a dull white cylindrical machine in the background, that appears to be a small-scale atmosphere converter, and the scientist starts explaining, too quickly—science too in-depth for Seungcheol to understand—his theories on the catastrophe. A perfunctory warning is announced by the news anchor, before a series of gruesome images from the colony flash on screen.

Seungcheol turns the channel, feeling winded and awful and just a little nauseous.

When he looks across the table, he finds Jihoon’s already left, even though his sandwich remains largely untouched.

Seungcheol doesn’t blame him; he’s lost his appetite too.

* * *

It's some strange nebulous number of hours later that Seungcheol finds himself dozing on the flight deck and staring at a blank screen of his data-pad.

It’s out of _charge._

He lifts his head from the console and discovers that it's nearly 2:50am Central time.

Jesus—he’s killed an entire _day_.

When he finally stumbles back to the station’s living quarters, he’s surprised to discover Jihoon is still awake and in the Rec-room, slumped listlessly over the cushioned seat of the observation window and pale enough to look ghostly. Which suggests he'd been so busy with intellectual quandaries that he'd forgotten to move?

Probably.

At least he’s neglecting the data-pad in favour of staring into the blackness of space and yawning occasionally. Which is a good. Maybe he was paying attention to the whole _'the internet will melt your eyeballs'_ part after all.

Seungcheol moves closer to stand over him, then nudges him gently with his knee.

“It’s almost 3am Kitten, what are you doing up?”

Jihoon looks away from the window and blinks at him, like he hadn't heard the question. One look at the table gives Seungcheol at least half of the picture. There are at least three sad empty cups with bare dribbles of coffee in each one. The one sitting at Jihoon’s side is still steaming.

There are really only a few explanations here, and Seungcheol jumps on the most obvious one.

"Why don't you want to sleep?” He asks carefully, gesturing at the coffee village Jihoon's seems intent on making himself mayor of. “Did you have another _nightmare_?”

Jihoon makes a soft grunt-like noise that commits him to nothing.

Seungcheol frowns, then drops into the seat next to him. “Who was a pickle person this time? Was it you? Was it _me_? Were we _both_ pickles?”

Jihoon gives him his patented 'stop making fun of me' face, but Seungcheol's far too amused to drop it that easily.

“C’mon tell me.” He needles, though he's fairly sure he should stop asking questions and just let Jihoon sulk in peace. That would be the sensible thing to do. “I promise I won’t tease you about it like last time.”

But Jihoon’s clearly not in the sharing mood right now. He tucks his knees up against his chest and turns his head away to stare out the viewport.

Seungcheol wonders if he should try a sarcastic 'watched any more porn recently' but it occurs to him that he might force Jihoon into doing exactly that, and they're really trying for the opposite.

“Okay, you don’t have to tell me anything.” He concedes when Jihoon continues to make his miserable point with silence. “But I know what’ll cheer you up. You want some milk and cookies?”

Jihoon exhales, rough and inelegant, then frowns. “I’m not hungry.”

Seungcheol blinks at him, stunned. “Not even for milk and _cookies_?”

Jihoon shakes his head and curls up on himself a little more.

There's a stiffness to him, something that tells Seungcheol this isn't just Jihoon being Jihoon. This is something else.

Seungcheol stares at him in the dark for a long, conflicted minute, then pads into the kitchen to fetch himself a glass of milk and some of those doughy chocolate chip cookies he can’t resist.

When he comes back, Jihoon’s still sitting where he was, head tipped against the glass.

Now that he’s approaching from a different angle, Seungcheol can see there’s a soft blue glow radiating off Jihoon’s skin and hair—one Seungcheol’s never seen before. He’s witnessed Jihoon’s red fiery glow of anger and his happy golden yellow glow, but the dull blue hum is a worrying new development.  

His Alien is clearly working through some _stuff_ and visibly leaking pained hurt all over the place as a result.

The idea bites at Seungcheol, while he quietly munches on a cookie, watching the tense line of Jihoon's back, shoulder blades looking sharper than usual through the back of his shirt.

After a moment of hesitation, Seungcheol takes a seat on the edge of the viewport seat a few inches away from Jihoon's foot and reaches out to wrap a hand round Jihoon's thin ankle. The skin's warmer than he's expecting.

“What’s wrong baby?”

Jihoon finally turns from the window and meets his eyes from under an errant, and particularly ludicrous, curl of hair.

“What do you believe happens to someone when they die?”

Seungcheol startles at the question, wondering— _fearing_ —what prompted it.

Jihoon’s naturally inquisitive about everything, but if this is the kind of thought that’s tumbling around inside his head right now, his sullen, blue mood makes perfect sense. Seungcheol feels guilty for needling him earlier and weighs his answer with unaccustomed care.

“Ah, uhm—there’s lots of theories about that. Not many are conclusive, and a lot of them are based heavily around faith.”

He pauses long enough to dip his cookie into his glass.

“My mom’s kind of old school religious, so she believes there’s another life after death, that good people go to heaven and bad people go to hell and that’s all decided by one almighty dude. Quite a few religions preach that actually. A girl I went to college with believed in reincarnation, and that your actions in this life would impact on your status in the next. And then there’s some transcendence theory floating around that I don’t really know enough about to explain.”

Jihoon’s still frowning, thought the shape of it has grown small and uncertain. He opens his mouth then closes it, and that's the first time in a long time Seungcheol's seen him wrestle with his own thoughts.

“What do _you_ believe?” He asks cautiously.

Seungcheol makes a hesitant noise around another mouthful and shrugs. “I’m not very religious, or _at all_ , in fact. So my beliefs are pretty simple. I think when you die, you _die_. That’s it. There’s nothing else to it.”

Jihoon blinks, forehead crinkling further. “You don’t believe there is a way to reunite with people you have lost?”

Seungcheol shifts uncomfortably, “It’s a nice thought, and people are welcome to believe in it—but I—” He gives a sad, lop-sided smile. “I don’t know if this makes me a realist or a _nihilist_ , but I just don’t buy into it, yanno.”

Jihoon is quiet for a moment, before he reads something in Seungcheol's face and nods, almost to himself.

Seungcheol drains his glass of milk while Jihoon mulls that over, and thinks about offering him half of his cookie again, but he'd probably just stare at it. Or _research_ it. Which would be a tragic waste of a delicious chocolate chip cookie.

“What about you? What do _you_ believe in?” He finally ventures, popping the rest of the cookie in his mouth.

Jihoon makes a quiet noise. Despondent.

“Much the same as you. Though I have no conclusive proof that I am correct in my beliefs, it appears to be the most logical choice. Everything that has a beginning has an ending and though my species has achieved great technological advancements, we have never been able to access what lies beyond death. But I wish there _was_ a way. I wish I could see—” Jihoon stops, but Seungcheol thinks maybe he knows how that wants to end.

“See someone one last time?” He finishes quietly.

Jihoon looks away, like he's been caught thinking something terrible, and Seungcheol leans forward, finds himself asking, “Is this about the colonist story on the news?”

Jihoon's face briefly twitches into something deeply unhappy. “It….reminded me of something. Something I had been trying not to think about for some time.”

Seungcheol grimaces, feeling the slow slide of grief from the back of his neck to the pit of his stomach.

“Did you lose someone?”

“A long time ago.” Jihoon says quietly, but meaningfully. He takes a slow breath in, then out, then whispers. “I wasn’t there in time.”

A new silence descends between them, a different and disconcerting sort of quiet. 

Uncomfortable, Seungcheol wipes his hands on his pants and scoots closer.

“I lost my dad when I was sixteen years old. He uhm—” Seungcheol swallows, his throat working as he tries to get the words out. “He had a car accident on his way back from work, a head-on collision with another driver who fell asleep at the wheel. I remember sitting on the grass outside school waiting for him to pick me up after football practice, and being so angry that he was late—then so confused when my uncle came by to pick me up instead. I’ll never forget that moment, the look on my Uncle’s face when he was trying to tell me—”  

Seungcheol trails off with a shaky inhale. It’s a painful memory—one that hurts to have brought up so suddenly; so much time lost, so many regrets and disagreements they would never reconcile.

When he lifts his gaze, the expression on Jihoon’s face is a complicated mess, like he's not entirely sure whether to say something or not.

When he does speak, his voice is the softest Seungcheol’s ever heard it. “I’m sorry Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol waves him away, quickly pushing away the familiar ache in his chest.  

Loss is something he has grown accustomed to. It’s something you learn to manage, not leave behind.

“What I’m trying to say is—loss like that never really goes away, but in time, it becomes more bearable. I still miss my dad a lot, I still wish he was around. But I had 16 pretty awesome years with him, and I treasure those memories. Sometimes the only thing you can do is try and cherish the time you _did_ spend together, not the time that was taken away from you.” Seungcheol says.

And wow, that came out sort of strangled and awful. He thinks maybe he tried for fake cheerful and failed miserably.

Jihoon's eyes catch his, then drop down again.

“But I do not have any moments to treasure. I—I wasn’t there in time.” he repeats, a painful quirk to his mouth.

Despite the unflappable image Seungcheol strives to maintain, he is _not_ made of stone. Before he’s even conscious of his decision, he’s reaching over and hugging Jihoon in a way that might be described, by some, as over-enthusiastic. Frankly, he doesn’t give a shit; his tiny Alien housemate is hurting and Seungcheol’s going to hug him better.

Thankfully, Jihoon doesn’t seem to mind the enforced proximity and quickly melts into the embrace. He curls his hands around Seungcheol’s neck, rubs his face into his shoulder like a fretful kitten and murmurs a quiet, “Sorry.”

Seungcheol backs away, not so far as to let go completely, but enough to look at Jihoon’s face—a face that’s quiet and tired and ever so slightly disappointed, but trying so hard not to be.

“What for? You don’t _have_ anything to apologise for Hoonie.”

The corner of Jihoon’s mouth lifts just a little. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there in time.”

Seungcheol doesn’t know how to answer that, doesn’t know what that _means_. The conversation clearly has layers that there's no way he can unravel. That he's almost certainly not supposed to. But he needs to do _something_ , and there’s little he can offer right now but comfort.

Pulling Jihoon onto his lap, he brushes a staticky strand of softly glowing hair from his forehead and presses a kiss to his temple. Jihoon relaxes almost instantly—curling against Seungcheol’s chest, ducking his head under his chin and pressing an ear over his heartbeat.

It strikes Seungcheol there—at that moment—that this is the most intimate way he’s ever held someone. Ever. He won’t lie to Jihoon—won’t make impossible promises and thin reassurances to make him feel better. But at least he can be  _here_.

At least he can hold him close and share heat and let the silence speak for him.

The silence holds longer than he expects, and they stay there for a while, looking out together across the vast and improbable starscape beyond the glass. So many points of light prick the smothering darkness—a billion stars dying and igniting in swathes and swirls and chaos.

It really is a spectacular view, and one he’s learning to appreciate. But as _cheesy_ as it sounds, he can’t help but feel that no view in any Galaxy compares to the sight of the petite alien curled up in his arms.  

.

.

.

.

“What do you mean by _cheesy_?” Jihoon whispers.

Seungcheol sighs. “Please don’t read my mind when we’re having a moment.”

* * *

**DAY:825**

Seungcheol's running diagnostics on the back-up mainframe the next time he hears the pitter patter of feet which tells him there's now an Alien somewhere in the vicinity.

He turns his head to the side, watches Jihoon’s bare feet step their way around patches of coolant.

"Kitten, you know it’s not safe to be down here when I’m repairing shit. You don’t have any protective clothing." Seungcheol says from where he’s lying underneath the access panel.

The feet stop near the scatter of tools Seungcheol's left within reaching distance.

“I know, but—there is something I wish to discuss with you.” Jihoon says. He sounds distinctly unhappy about it.

Seungcheol pauses, just for an instant, then picks up his screwdriver, “Alright,” he says, slowly, trying not to sound anything but casually interested. “Shoot.”

Jihoon is silent for so long that Seungcheol thinks he’s forgotten he was going to say anything. Then he murmurs: “My distress beacon has yet to receive a response.”

Nothing else, no elaboration.

Seungcheol switches his screwdriver for his wrench and says, “Okay, but it’s only been a few—” He pauses, calculating just exactly how long it’s been since Jihoon appeared in his life.

He’s startled to realise it’s been well over two months. Which is, yeah…

A search and rescue mission back on Earth would have ended by now. Any missing parties would have been declared MIA or dead, so it makes sense for Jihoon to be a _little_ concerned.

“Normally they would have responded by now.” Jihoon says into the silence, as if reading his thoughts.

Seungcheol shrugs, which is a pretty pointless gesture when he's lying under the access panel, “So, what—You think something’s interfering with the signal? It’s not getting through to the relevant people?” he asks around a wrench.

“No.” Jihoon tells him, then, with a certain desperate clarity, “I think they are _ignoring_ me.”

“W-hat? That’s _crazy_.” Seungcheol offers, without really thinking about it. He turns his head out of the way of a drip of coolant. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I have broken our laws.” Jihoon announces in that unnecessarily portentous tone. Like this is serious business indeed. 

Seungcheol blinks. “What laws?”

There's a strange silence that almost sounds guilty. Seungcheol isn't entirely sure how he's even getting that, because he's still looking at his hands, and the dark grubby stretch of the main-frame’s underside. He looks sideways but all he can see are Jihoon’s bare feet, and they’re annoyingly unhelpful about what he's thinking.

“We are not supposed to…..interfere with other species.” Jihoon answers eventually. “We are only supposed to observe, from a distance. Direct interference is reprehensible and anyone who doesn’t observe these laws is shunned from our society. Or at least, that is what I was told when I first embarked on my journey. I was warned of the risks.”

Seungcheol takes a moment to figure that out in his head.

The whole thing is both impossibly interesting and very disturbing.

“How would they even _know_ you broke this law? Did you tell them, or are they watching you or something?”

“They have ways of knowing. My choices have created a disturbance. It’s—It’s hard to explain.” Frustration ripples through Jihoon's tone.

Seungcheol suspects there’s more to it than that.

There’s a great deal about Jihoon’s world that’s hard to explain, but that’s never stopped him before.

“Look,” Seungcheol begins gently, grabbing his wrench again, “You can’t know that’s what’s happening here for certain. It could be that the signal just hasn’t reached them yet. I mean, you travelled through that rift. Maybe it has to be open for the signal to get through. We just have to figure out how to open that rift again and--”

“I was the one who opened the rift.” Jihoon interjects.

Seungcheol stops turning the wrench. “What?”

“I opened the rift, to travel through.” Jihoon repeats.

There's a quiet, clipped brevity to the words. It's oddly restrained for Jihoon. Seungcheol gets the feeling there are words under there, a great deal of words. Though for some strange and bewildering reason he's choosing not to share them.

Which isn't like him.

In as much as Jihoon can be predicted.

“How?” Seungcheol asks in surprise. “Do you have like…some sort of space warp function on your ship?”

Which if he does...is actually pretty cool.

There's a pointed silence, in which, Seungcheol assumes, Jihoon is attempting to translate human sci-fi jargon into useable word forms.

“I’m not quite sure what you mean by ‘space warp’,” Jihoon says eventually, “But my people have been traversing the galaxies for several millennia’s through linear and non-linear means.”

“Wha—ow!” Seungcheol's hand slams into a hard piece of metal and he holds in a swearword and makes a pained fist. “Wait, wait, wait—what does that mean?”

“I believe the non-linear concept is still yet an undiscovered terrain for humans, but my research indicates your scientists are aware of the concept, just that you are unable to comprehend it’s use and are unable replicate the conditions to allow for it. Your MWI theory comes close to reality, but the idea that the non-denumerably infinite realities are non-communicating is laughable. But I suppose your small human brains are most comfortable with a linear description of time than the possibility of several indefinite outcomes of the same reality.”

Seungcheol nods, which probably isn't helpful at all but he's not sure he can manage words right now. He tries for the sake of conversation. “That sounds fascinating Jihoon, but I’m not sure I understood a _word_ of it. Non-denumerable infinite _realities_? I don’t even know if that’s three words or four.”

Jihoon heaves a very disappointed sigh.

He’s actually disappointed that his science mumbo jumbo didn’t make perfect sense immediately. There's no point Seungcheol pretending he understands either. Jihoon is easily the most intelligent person he knows, and Seungcheol’s pride does not strain in admitting he’s a little lost when Jihoon rambles about ‘science’ shit.

“I do not know if there is a way I can explain that clearer.” Jihoon huffs.

“Don’t bother trying. Like I said—I’m just a jarhead, not Stephen Hawking.” Seungcheol sighs, rubbing his temple. “Can’t you just—I dunno,--open up the rift and go back through it?”

“My ship is damaged. Your reality does not have the necessary equipment to repair it. That is why I released the distress signal.” Jihoon admits, sounding like he's further away than before.

There’s a contemplative silence before he continues, “I _could_ re-open the rift on a smaller scale, but it would not be stable enough for me travel for an extended period of time. I could only exist in each reality for a handful of minutes at a time, and that would be very unsatisfying a life to lead.”

Seungcheol thinks about that for a minute. Then tries to think about it like  _Jihoon._

Needless to say, he gets an instant _migraine_.

“So, what you’re saying is…..you’re stuck here?”  He ventures.

Jihoon heaves a quiet, defeated sigh. “It appears so.”

Seungcheol scratches his chin and considers the options before him.

Keeping Jihoon here, with him, would be the kindest option if it were not also undeniably selfish. As annoying as he can be sometimes, Seungcheol enjoys Jihoon’s company. He can’t imagine going back to the long stretches of silence and soldier through them sanely. On the other hand, concealing an Alien species aboard a government space station is probably somewhere on the list of things that’ll get you court marshalled for treason. Or gross misconduct at the least.

Seungcheol can only imagine the consequences he will face if Jihoon’s existence onboard is discovered. His sense of ease bleeds away a little if he thinks about it too long. 

In the end, the decision is easier than it should be.

Consequences or no, Seungcheol is a selfish man, and a pragmatist. He won't send Jihoon away to fend for himself simply because it's easier. Never mind the regulations; he  _will not_  lose his Alien.

“So you stay here, with me. Is that so bad?” Seungcheol asks.  

He can't help grinning at the bewildered silence that comes from somewhere to his left.

Jihoon shifts closer, Seungcheol likes to think his tiny toes are giving off an air of curious pique.

“You would allow this?” He offers slowly and uncertainly. Like he's truly bewildered by it.

Seungcheol shrugs. He really should stop doing that when Jihoon can’t see him.

“Sure, why not.”

He can’t see Jihoon’s expression from this angle. His hesitation is audible, though.

“But I am disrupting your realities quantum state. I am interfering with your linear progression. Does this not bother you?” Jihoon says carefully. Like he’s surprised Seungcheol didn’t notice that happening or something.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I’ll get over it.”

There's a very long pause, so long that Seungcheol thinks maybe Jihoon isn't going to speak again. But when he cranes his neck out from under the access panel, he finds the petite alien standing there. Jihoon's face is a pale shadow beneath all his hair, expression unhappy.

“What about when your work here is complete, and you return to Earth? What will I do then?” Jihoon says eventually, voice slow and rough.

Again, Seungcheol considers his options, though this time it's the logistics of the situation making him hesitate. Keeping Jihoon here is one thing, smuggling an Alien back to Earth is something else entirely.

It’s not going to be easy, not by a long shot. But it _is_ doable.

Seungcheol slithers his way out from under the access panel, straightens up.

“I have a spare room back at my place, and I’ve always wanted a housemate.” He offers.

Jihoon blinks at him, like that didn’t answer his question, like it wasn’t an obvious invitation. Clearly super intelligent aliens need it _spelled_ out for them.

“What I’m saying is, you can stay with me Jihoon. In my home. On _Earth_.” Seungcheol repeats, holding Jihoon’s gaze unwaveringly.

Jihoon frowns.

He’s clearly in one of his observant moods, either that or he's just naturally suspicious of Seungcheol’s generosity. “Won’t the leaders of your world object to such an arrangement?”

A small, involuntary chuckle escapes Seungcheol, “Why? Are you planning on destroying Earth or something?”

Jihoon makes a face at him. “No. I would never harm another living being.”

A mischievous smile licks at the corner of Seungcheol's lips. “Then I guess they don’t have to know. It’ll be our little secret.”

Jihoon’s brow is a topographical map of worry; Seungcheol watches him chew on the inside of his lip for a moment—he probably thinks he is being surreptitious about it.

“And how do you propose we maintain this secret Seungcheol? How exactly will I return to Earth with you without anyone finding out?”

Seungcheol takes a deep, unnecessary breath and considers his answer.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, okay. I still have months before my rotation ends, _months_ to think of something.  And I _will_ think of something.” He lifts a hand to pinch Jihoon’s nose gently. “It’ll be okay Jihoon, I won’t leave you behind.” He says, hoping to ease the worry-lines between Jihoon’s eyebrows.

They _do_ ease, and after a moment Jihoon smiles at him, eyes warm and far too bright.

“I often wonder if he would have been as kind as you.” He whispers.

The non-sequitur catches Seungcheol off guard, “Huh?”

For an instant—almost too quick to catch—panic darts through Jihoon's eyes. Then he’s blinking it away quickly, and shaking his head.

“Nothing. This is very pleasing news Seungcheol. I am very…. _pleased_. Thank you.” He says, and the blissful gratitude that brightens his features is enough to break Seungcheol’s heart.

“C’mere tiny roomie,” He says, throwing an arm around Jihoon’s shoulder, ruffling his hair for good measure. “C’mon, I’ll make you some hot chocolate. Proper hot chocolate. None of that powdery shit.”

Jihoon bursts into a sunshine yellow glow, clearly enthused by the promise of proper hot chocolate.

“Will you adorn it with the miniature cylindrical whipped gelatin and sucrose mixture?”

Seungcheol laughs and squeezes his shoulder, “Yeah, sure. As many mini marshmallows as you want.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Alien Jihoon is currently my fave Jihoon to write :D  
> 2) Someone on twitter suggested Jihoon discover dancing, and I had to roll with it.  
> 3) Did the science make sense? No? It wasn't supposed to. It hardly made sense to me when I was researching it to be honest. Quantum Mechanics....not really something you study as a hobby. But I tried, and if you were confused after, spare a thought for poor Seungcheol. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed the update! Thank you for reading and feedback is always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> 1) If you follow me on twitter, you'll notice I mentioned writing this recently. It's based on a piece of Fan-art Janna drew like...a year ago?  
> [Janna Art 1](https://mobile.twitter.com/xparksjx/status/924316741282365440/photo/1)
> 
> Anyway, I sort of elaborated on the piece with my usual random crap and I thought it would be an awesome AU to write.  
> Science fiction is my absolute fave genre, and oddly enough I have never ventured into writing anything remotely science fiction...so here is my attempt.  
> Expect all the sci-fi clichés because THIS SHIT IS HARD TO RESEARCH and my inspiration for the sciencey bits comes from movies I've seen or games I've played.  
> 2) Jihoon's outfit is absolutely based on Leeloo's outfit in the fifth element. Because, hot damn. Imagine Jihoon in that. Oh wait you don't have to, because Janna also drew this beautiful piece.  
> [LeeLoo Jihoon](https://mobile.twitter.com/xparksjx/status/1040970941273059333/photo/1)  
> 3) This fic will be short. And when I say that I mean...shorter than my other fics.  
> 4) Hope you enjoy reading.  
> 5) I'm sorry I started another fic.


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